


Across the Sky

by MemoryCrow



Series: Dark Am I, Yet Lovely [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Derivative but non-canon, F/M, Magic, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Relationship fiction, Slow Build, eventually explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-01 06:49:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 80,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6505570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This began as a desire to write Rumpelstiltskin and Belle smut. It takes awhile, but it gets there, somewhere around the 5th or 6th chapter... So if you seek to avoid smut, know that once it arrives, it never leaves. If it's your thing, either be patient or skip ahead.<br/>The characters are their own, as derived from Once Upon A Time, but the story is fairly non-canon, though there are references to canon. Along with smut there is character and relationship development, mysticism and dreaminess. A bit of angst as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Abduction

 

 

It wasn't actually abduction; it was sacrifice, heroism. Bravery.

Belle kept saying the words, wanting to be seen as her own woman, making her own choices. _I've chosen this_ , she said, looking into the watery and wizened eyes of old wives. But their tears slid down their tired faces, and they said, "Poor wee lamb. Poor, lost lamb."

Old ladies in the village were one thing; Rumpelstiltskin was quite another. " _Oh, see how they cry for you._ " he said. Sometimes, he spoke the words with his characteristic glee; fingertips steepled, broad grin, impish giggle very nearly accompanied by a jig. Oh, happy day.

But sometimes his lip curled, his face so still and somber, it may as well have been stone. Quiet was within him, then, and pooled all around him, like his magic. Belle tried to be a shadow, a mouse, a _nothing_ ; because she wanted to _see_. Who are you?

When he giggled and pranced and made people and objects disappear, _poof_ , his eyes were wide. Wide, amber; cat-like, or maybe owl-like. They were all-seeing and yet a mask. Like an illusion, they seemed to take up an inordinate amount of his face.... a strange face that was all wide eyes and broad, maniac grin. Yes, Belle was beginning to think; A mask.

For when he became still, she realized his eyes were deeply hooded. Heavy-lidded, almond shaped. His mouth stilled, and Belle saw a rather thin upper lip, but a surprisingly sensuous bottom lip, very nearly a pout. She saw deeply hollowed cheeks; gauntness and richness at war with one another.... A long, sharply pointed nose, a bump near the bridge.

Not exactly pretty, or handsome. Or noble, wholesome. Not an open face.

But not wholly an Imp, either. Not a goblin.

Somewhere in there was a man, and the realization woke a strange feeling in Belle, as did his quiet. There was anger in his quiet, nothing new in the Dark Castle. There was sadness as well, which Belle had not seen in all of the mad capering.

Stilled, his face half in shadow, his lip curled. He looked at nothing... Belle couldn't even be sure he spoke to her. His voice a husky, raspy quiet, he said, "How they cry for you."

　

　

 


	2. Women's Magic

Those moments were fleeting. And, like his magic, seemed to come with a price.

He'd looked up, noticed her open stare as she cataloged his features, his moods and nuances. Her disguise as a mouse was seen though. His face remained somber, but his quiet broke and he strode swiftly to her side, taking painful hold of her upper arm.

"You've had enough freedom for today, dearie." he said. Almost, but not quite, his usual chipperness. He escorted her stumbling, mildly protesting form up steps and down ramps; sometimes the castle took on it's own life and became confusing. She was all but thrown into her room, the door slammed and locked.

Well, at least it was her room and not the dungeon. (Or torture chamber, ossuary, whatever it was he kept in the cold bowels of the castle. Perhaps even he didn't know all of it's ramblings and oubliettes). There was even a merry fire going in the stone fireplace; happy, demonic chuckling behind the dark grate, as befit the element of Imp. Taking heart from the now-familiar surroundings of her room, Belle said, "Just because you think I saw you weak for all of a second..."

She was muttering to herself, but then, suddenly her books, scattered on the bed, disappeared in a puff of lavender-violet smoke. The magic left behind a mineral scent, ozone and impending rain... wet limestone and, oddly, honey. Also left was a scrap of paper on the bed that was scripted, "Ha."

Belle sighed, fingering the think, fibrous paper, ragged threads dangling at it's torn edges. It was clear that she was a nuisance, that she got on his nerves. A pain in the arse, he'd once told her with a pseudo-pleasant smile. Why did he keep here, then?

And more to the point, why did she care? The proper response to annoying him was to be pleased. Triumphant. She should come up with her own crazy giggle and happy dance, and ~ should he express his irritation ~ she could launch into it. The thought made her smile, but she realized she smiled to think on his astonishment rather than his displeasure.

The fact was that she wanted to please him. But, why? Where was the heroism in that? She remembered that he'd once laughed, a genuine laugh, rather than that stagey thing he was always doing. He'd come upon her as she dropped a plate in the kitchen, shattering it to bits. She'd stared at the mess of shards and powder, bitten her bottom lip, and quietly said, "Shit."

At that, she was startled by a laugh behind her... She turned; _there he was_. There _it_ is, she should have thought, but no. The surprised chuckle had been his, a man's, and he gave a teasing, mild smile as he waved a hand. The plate was back in her hands, whole and gleaming.

"Language, dearie." he'd said, still smiling, and continued strolling through.

Later, Belle heard the lock on her door click, and then the door swung open. No one was there, but Belle supposed this was Rumpelstiltskin's way of telling her she was freed from the confines of her room. He probably wanted company, and was willing to risk her tendency to bother him.

Hmph. She folded her arms around herself and stayed by the fire. He could wait. A bloody, long time, in fact. She had no use for his company.

She smelled the magic again; smoke and rain, the moon on a wet, dark night, cold water over mossy stone. She turned to see her books returned to her bed, and rolled her eyes.

Then she smiled. What was _wrong_ with her?

She grabbed a shawl, a gift from Rumpelstiltskin and one of her favorites; a warm, golden weave embroidered with pink and white roses, deeply green leaves. She was happy, maybe excited for him call to her, for him to make amends. How disgusted her family would be.

Still, she kept herself in check. Quiet. A mouse in a pretty shawl. Because she like to observe him...

She came into his study to find him spinning, a long pipe clenched between his teeth. His spinning fascinated her... even if he spun wool or flax into thread, instead of straw into gold, it would fascinate her. It was a woman's art, spinning. She'd never seen a man do it before coming to live with Rumpelstiltskin.

His eyes flickered to her, a barest nod of acknowledgement.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked, and then mentally kicked herself. Why? Why this desire to fetch and carry and _please_?

Pausing to remove the pipe, checking the bowl, he said, "No dearie, none for me. But I've a fresh, hot pot on the sideboard if you'd care for some."

Belle said, "oh," a soft gasp.

It was small things such as this that seemed to spur her into wanting to please her captor. He so often anticipated her wants and needs, even as she was scurrying to anticipate his. "Thank you. " she added, helping herself.

He nodded, pipe again engaged, and leaned back, watching her in a mellow way. He was, Belle realized, probably a little high. She wasn't sure what he smoked in that thing, but it gave off a pleasant, sweet scent... A sweetness more of rich chocolate than of sugar. A bitter chocolate, and deep, red rose... It made Belle want to try the pipe. Wouldn't _that_ amuse him?

She felt herself blushing as he continued to watch her. Keeping her eyes on her teacup, she settled near him, perched on a little, wooden stool.

"The shawl suits you, dearie," he said, mouthing around the pipe. (the shah shoots oo). "It's very fetching."

Belle felt her cheeks grow even more warm, and could only glance at him for a moment before her eyes cast heavily back to her tea. "Thank you." she said. Then confessed, "It's my favorite."

She glanced at him again, and he smiled at her. This mellow, heavy-lidded, contemplative smile... What _was_ he smoking? Sitting upright once more, he resumed his wheel and Belle watched. It seemed to put him into something of a trance, unless it was the pipe doing so. It put Belle into a trance as well. It made her think of when her mother lived, and had played a harpsichord... Belle had loved nothing more than to lay near it while her mother played, awash in the resonant, reverberating sounds of the hammer on strings. There was magic in it.

And maybe, she thought now, watching Rumpelstiltskin's body sway, back and forth with moving the wheel, pressing the treadle; maybe there really was magic in it. In some of those ordinary acts, either repetitive or making sound ring out... Maybe these things lulled magic, or sang out to it, whatever magic really was. (Spirits? Energy?)

Gold, delicate strands, unlinked, unchained; like liquid. Belle didn't care about it's value... it was just so beautiful, and so miraculous.

"I would have only splinters of straw," she mused aloud. "Only a sneezy, dried-grassy mess, and raw fingers."

Rumpelstiltskin looked a bit startled, returning from wherever he'd been. He seemed surprised to find her, so near to him, nearly sitting at his feet.. He stopped the wheel and fingered the light, shining strands he'd made.

"Perhaps not, Belle." he said, and she was genuinely startled by his use of her name. "This is, after all, women's magic. I'm something of an interloper."

"Women's magic." Belle echoed softly, feeling the shape of the words in her mouth. The wheel, or maybe the smoke affected her as it did him.

"Indeed," he said, his voice soft. _This is intimacy_ , Belle thought, a shiver inside her belly.

"Spinning, scrying," he nodded at the liquid in her teacup, "the reading of tea-leaves, the enchantment of brooms.... All of those things, the tools, the magic... it is the province of women. Witches. The tools and ingredients readily at hand.

"With the power of the Dark One, I don't require any of it. A thought, intent... that's really all I need. But I grew up with Spinsters. With women's arts and tools. These things... soothe me."

Was she hypnotized? Belle could only gaze at him. Her lips felt full, as if they wished only for a kiss. Thoughts intruded, irksome voices of family and villagers at the back of her mind. Goblin. Imp. _Dark One_... the blackness of the magic that has taken such hold of him that it has _twisted_ and _corrupted_ him, inside and out; so that his skin is more lizard, dragon-hide than man; his eyes are inhuman, his teeth are unspeakable; and who knows what foulness might emanate from within.... the blackness of his soul...

It wasn't as if these things were not... truths. Or that they didn't matter. But Belle felt overwhelmed, having never known a man like Rumpelstiltskin. Or a woman, even. She'd never known anyone to readily supply her with books, to feed her imagination, which turned out to be so hungry. And to not roll his eyes and say, "Well, you know how Belle is..."

She'd never before met a man who would state, with ease and simple truth, that he was comfortable with women's work. Women's craft... That he was raised, so.

Her gaze lingered, her eyes seeming to fill up with his owl's eyes, and - a bit frightened of herself - she felt her lips part.

Then, giving a surprisingly gentle smile, Rumpelstiltskin tapped his forefinger to the tip of her nose. He smelled of magic and chocolate and smoke. "I think you're a bit stoned from my pipe." he chuckled.

He went back to his wheel, then, spinning and humming. Belle set her teacup down, tea forgotten, and watched his black nailed fingers move, his torso sway, and the play of shadow and light on the silken spill of golden thread.

 


	3. Gods and Faeries

Belle's appetite for books, stories and information was voracious. Morning found her in the wood paneled library Rumpelstiltskin had opened-up for her; shelves of books from floor to ceiling, and a ladder on wheels that moved on a track, allowing her to access all. The room was a little dark, heavy curtains over tall, narrow windows to protect the books from fading in sunlight. Not, Belle thought, that the Dark Castle was overly acquainted with sunlight. ("It's called the _Dark_ Castle, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin said when she complained; his expression implied that she was a bit simple. "And I," with a bow, "am the _Dark One_.")

Lamps on various tables were aglow in the musty, elegant gloom, under glass-globe shades of red, ochre or green... a few small, glowing globes of cobalt blue. There were comfortable chairs and a settee, as well as a long, gleaming wood table and chairs; but Belle was settled on the floor, on an irregular-shaped rug of tawny fur. What manner of beast, she couldn't say and tried not to think on.

The books surrounding her would have shocked her family, and she was actually a little concerned for what her captor might think, should he come around. There were titles like, Witchcraft, Witchcraft Through the Ages, Ordinary Household Witchcraft; Witchcraft, A-Z.

There were also books called, From Black Cats to Mistletoe: Examining Superstition and it's Uses; Swan Maidens and Dragon Riders; The Divine Female; and The Devil's Garden: Herbs for Wise Women.

Belle was fascinated. It was _his_ fault, she reasoned. Rumpelstiltskin. With his magic, hypnotic wheel and psychedelic  pipe. She didn't remember ever going to bed, but woke... cozy under her covers, dressed in her nightgown. She blushed to think he might have undressed her, the blush all the warmer for the way she ruminated over the idea, conjuring his copper-greenish, long-fingered hands with their black fingernails, undoing her various laces. Although, she thought, should he have assisted her to bed, he probably did it with magic.

She had a thick, sluggish sense of dreaming, fleeting images, (crows, foxes, proposing bears), and a feeling of anxiety. Odd, dream related thoughts fueled the anxiety, (a holly tree in the stunted garden of the Dark Castle took on accelerated life, and it's roots, the size of rivers, are tunneling beneath the castle and will swallow it.... A whirlpool formed in the enormous, black lake at the edge of the village, but somehow became vertical, a roaring, swirling portal, and will suck us all in to our doom, a reverse cyclone...).

She cleared her head with tea and breakfast, huddled before the kitchen fire, and what came back to her fully was _women's magic_. _She_ was a woman, as it happened. Highborn as she was, she'd had little to do with, as Rumpelstiltskin said, the tools of women. It was something of a small miracle she'd made her own tea and porridge... She'd been embarrassed, when, in her early days at the Dark Castle, Rumpelstiltskin had had to teach her how.

Lighting fires in fireplaces and in the oven; the manner in which seemingly inedible ingredients became food and drink, rather than animal fodder and dry leaves; all of it was new. He'd told her the Dark Castle was her cook, servant and handmaid, ready to see to all of her needs; but she'd realized she would wither away for lack of something to _do_. So he'd taught her.

As it stood, she was only now becoming aware of the tools of women, and it was interesting to think that they could be seen as subversive things. It was interesting to think that Rumpelstiltskin was part of a world of practical tasks and practical magic, while she had never sewn a button or grown a carrot. Or spun.

 _Spinsters_ , she thought. She'd only ever thought of unmarried women, past an age when they might catch a husband. But Rumpelstiltskin said he was raised by Spinsters, and he meant Spinners. That's where he learned.

Belle read, wanting to know more of women, ( _witches_ , he'd said), who might wield magic, even without the power of the Dark One. She read about various ways of creating spells; sending them into the world to change it, bend it; to work one's will. Women sewed spells into clothing and dolls; they swept evil out of houses and "swept up storms". The same ladle stirring the pot could double as a wand, and _anything_ could be brewing in the pot. Herbs, gardens; that was a world in and of itself. It could be difficult to tell the difference between a spell recipe and a culinary recipe, but for the odd ingredient here and there. (Blue-jay feather, iron nail, graveyard dirt.... Sometimes the very ingredients seemed impossible to Belle... the tear of a remorseful cat...a note of an infant's song. Never mind the intended result.)

Most daunting to Belle was the notion of where the magic came from... the power of magic. She had not found any books about the Dark One, but had always heard of it called a Demon. Demonic. She knew the demon was eternal, and - while it lived in a human host - the human was potentially eternal. Immortal. She knew there had been other Dark Ones, before Rumpelstiltskin, though not during her lifetime. Tales is all, she thought, uncertain of what she believed.

But if the tales carried any truth, the vast stores of magic within Rumpelstiltskin came courtesy of a sort of parasitic, or symbiotic demon. Honed, perhaps, by Rumpelstiltskin's own cleverness.

This demon was nowhere in her reading. She'd read of possession, but in those stories the entity, (spirit? ghost? demon? What _were_ these things, truly?), was in control. Belle was almost certain that Rumpelstiltskin was not controlled by a demon, though people said otherwise.

Some of the books spoke of magic as it's own, living thing. A force, power, in everything. An energy. In these readings, she could glean that even the fur she sat upon might have magic, or potential for magic. A remembered, personal power from the animal that was, living on and accessible to the magic worker. (Witch). In the context of this idea, then, nearly everything had life. Perhaps not heart-beating, respirating or even exactly conscious life, but life, nonetheless. Stones, earth, remnants of living things, or things that lived still... the very elements of earth, air, fire and water... truly, everything of the natural world could be said to be alive, and to be connected to spirit. Magic.

These writings made it seem as though anyone could simply up and do magic. Maybe even on accident, and -yes- there were spells and charms to prevent accidental magic. But how, Belle wondered? She'd swept Rumpelstiltskin's kitchen countless times, the broom a woman's tool she now knew well, but was sure she'd never cast a spell, on purpose or otherwise. Likewise, she'd stirred pots, spilled salt, fed chickens.... It seemed all of these activities had a potential for spell-work, and yet she was spell-free.

And then there were gods. Deities. The Devil, or a devil, included; and this was the closest Belle came to reading of the Dark One. Were there people who _worshipped_ Rumpelstiltskin? In exchange for magic or protection, successful crops and healthy children? She thought of the villagers, and he, their lord. _Lord_. And it was true... they left him gifts, food and such, and endeavored to be well-behaved people in order to keep him appeased. Their village thrived. Though Belle had not witnessed it, their stories told that when someone was unruly; a theft, a rape, a murder; their lord was quick to smite. And if any act was committed against Rumpelstiltskin, even speaking out against him, woe to the perpetrator. Or it could be the entire village that was punished, and - ever after - it would be they who kept scoundrels and wastrels in line, so as not to incur their lord's wrath.

Belle had been aware of the uneasy relationship between the villagers and their lord from the start. Some of them called her "Lady". "My Lady". But she demurred, as she was not at all certain of her role within Rumpelstiltskin's household. (It seemed she was on similar footing with Chloe, the cat, whom her captor appeared to adore).

On the surface, she had not seen the relationship as any sort of magical exchange, nor- indeed- any reflection of deity or spirituality. She had only compared it to her own kingdom, sad that her father was unable to provide his people with the same, impenetrable protection that Rumpelstiltskin offered. Thus, her sacrifice. Her new home.

But now, books in hand, she had to wonder. There _was_ an exchange, an arrangement. Or, in Rumpelstiltskin's parlance, a _deal._ And so many stories involving gods displayed this sort of negotiating. The villagers made a sacrifice, say, a tithe from each family at harvest, a suckling pig; that black tea Rumpelstiltskin liked so well; In return, they were the _only_ village not plagued by ogres. Also, they seemed impervious to the whims of weather, or diseases brought by travelers from foreign lands. They suffered little infant mortality.

There was an element of Faerie in it as well; often those stories weren't so different from those of the gods. Gifts, respect, fear or veneration in exchange for protection and prosperity. Had Belle missed the magic and, perhaps, religion of the arrangements she was so familiar with, or were the tales of gods and faeries sprung from ages old deals between the powerful rich and the dependent poor who lived on their land?

Another question: Was the Dark One truly within Rumpelstiltskin, twisting his looks, as people said? Or did Rumpelstiltskin worship the Dark One, accessing his power thusly, and utilizing it through spells?

Or did Rumpelstiltskin look as he did because he wasn't human? Because he was a deity... or a faerie?

"Well, this can't be good."

Belle jumped within her own skin, a pins and needles feeling flooding her extremities. Her vision returned from viewing her own thoughts, and before her were worn but gleaming, black, leather boots, lacing up to Rumpelstiltskin's thighs. He tittered.

Looking up, Belle saw that he wore an amazed, closed-mouthed smile, head tilted as he glanced over her books. Her eyes dropped back down to where boot met leather clad thigh, and then glanced away.

"I was curious about magic... as you spoke of it last night." she said.

"So I see."

He sat gracefully down before her, leaving Belle a bit flustered. He wasn't usually so close to her, so casual. _On the floor_.

"Are you coming to any understanding?" he asked, now showing crooked and darkened teeth. He held up a book, simply called, Frogs, and raised his eyebrows. Belle blushed, silently cursing that she always blushed so easily in his presence. That she could not control it. She needed a spell.

She shrugged one shoulder, causing the favorite shawl to slip a bit. She saw his eyes move briefly to the event of shrug and bared shoulder, and then... Was she noting that he blushed? His skin was much darker than hers, it was hard to tell. But the lashes of his owl eyes fluttered down, casting shadows on the hollows beneath his eyes. The high ridges of his cheekbones seemed to smolder, like embers.

Was this why he kept her, then? When she was a pain in the arse? Did she... warm him?

"I don't think I have, really," she said. "I've come up with more questions, but not understanding."

She watched him open Swan Maidens and Dragon Riders, the pages fluttering open to a painting of a pale, stark naked woman with a serpent wrapped around her middle, it's face raised to hers like a lover. She was very ample of bosom and weirdly nude of pubic hair, showing a pouting cleft at the apex of her thighs.

Rumpelstiltskin looked up at Belle, a comical, scandalized, wide-eyed and mouth-dropped-open look, one hand coming to the side of his face. "Dearie, dearie, dear." he said, all stage silliness.

Belle laughed in spite of her embarrassment, and- still blushing- said, "I've noticed that a lot of books on the subject of magic seem to have a fair number of pictures of naked people."

"Really?" He looked interested, flipping pages avidly. "Anything I should be aware of? I don't believe I've read these."

Belle laughed again, and said, "Pervert."

He seemed to beam at her, and then stretched out, laying on his side, head propped on the palm of one hand. His shirt was a deep crimson, warm and lovely, jewel-like in Belle's eyes. Though tucked neatly into the his leather breeches, it was voluminous, deeply V'd at the neck, and now obeyed gravity to drape towards the floor. Belle's eyes flickered to the boney ridges of his chest; the same, coppery-olive skin as the rest of him. He had a subtle sparkle, as if part mineral. She thought she spied a dark nipple... maybe only a shadow... and she looked down at her lap. She found herself inappropriately curious about his body, and entranced with the way in which he suddenly seemed... accessible.

For once he wasn't wrapped from stem to stern in leathers, silks and brocades. Not even a waistcoat. She felt like she could slide her hand under the V of his collar, and wondered if he would be warm. Even his posture, on the floor, and now reclining like some southern queen, being fanned with feathers and broad leaves.... it suggested a casual closeness that made Belle all the more curious. Her thoughts surprised her; heated her. She felt overwhelmed, and - as the evening prior - she felt a sense of intimacy.

"So tell me, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin said, and Belle felt a tingling thrill in her abdomen and chest as his fingers moved to play with the fringes of her shawl. "Do you want to learn magic? Should I be concerned that you want to learn the Dark One's secrets? Perhaps to overthrow his tyrannical reign of power? Eh, missie?"

The last two words came with his knuckle rapping on her knee, and Belle feared she couldn't be intelligent. It was too many questions, and she was unused to his nearness. To touching. "Even if I wanted your secrets," she said, having trouble looking at him, "Your library doesn't seem to contain any books spelling out the secrets of the Dark One. Though, perhaps, I _would_ like to learn magic, if such a thing is possible."

"It's possible, dearie. You were expecting a book titled, The Secrets of the Dark One?"

Smiling, Belle said, "No. Actually, I was wanting to know about women's magic. Practical magic."

"Witchcraft."

"Yes. But my reading did lead me to wonder about you."

"Wonder?" he smiled again. He rolled to his back, legs crossed at the ankle, and Belle fought with herself all over again. She looked at his planed flank, the tautness of belly and thigh, the obvious bulge at his groin. The leather left only details of skin and bone to her imagination.

He played his childish game, hands above his chest in mimicry of cat's cradle, rolling his head back and forth, saying, "Wonder, ponder, wander, asunder, coriander, insider, to-hide-her, beside her, may-good-luck-betide-her." He glanced at Belle; hummed to himself. Then, "Well?" he prompted, hands expansive. "What did you wonder, dearie?"

Belle took a deep breath. It was hard to organize her thoughts after a night of dreams followed by a morning of books. She began to simply speak her various musings, in no particular order... random associations that embarrassed her, but about which she puzzled. The source of magic, deities, faeries, deals, lords and their subjects; all of it. After listening for awhile, staring up at the vine patterned ceiling molding, Rumpelstiltskin rolled back to his side. He watched her speak with his wide, unearthly eyes as one, long finger drew circles, parting the fur of the rug.

When she paused, he said, "Goodness, how you ruminate, dearie. A cow with her cud."

... Before coming to the Dark Castle, no one had ever told Belle, plainly, that she was a pain in the arse. Now she was a cow? Her highbrow feathers ruffled. "You called me a _cow_." she said, her words simply tumbled out in her astonishment.

Waving a hand with a bit of an eye roll, Rumpelstiltskin said, "... _Well_...."It was a trifling thing, of no consequence.

"I tell you my thoughts.... Of all people, you should be able to talk to me about magic. And who bloody else is there to talk to, by the way? And you called me a cow."

The finger drawing in the fur rose up and _tsked_ her, metronome-like. "Temper, love." he said, smile in place and eyes gleeful. And, as quick as that, Belle's blush returned. He'd called her a cow, and now, _love_. A definite switch from his usual "dearie". .. though she couldn't imagine that it meant anything, that it was affection. He called everyone dearie. He'd called _Gaston_ dearie.

"Well, it was rude." Belle muttered.

Then his face did darken a touch, leaving Belle nervous. The smile stayed put, but it was mean; the expression in his eyes... haunted? Calculating? "Oh, you don't know rude, dearie. You don't know how much worse I could be. _You're_ treated as precious, _Precious_. I could've eaten daddy's little, cream-filled muffin in one bite, had I wished. Did no one tell you I'm a monster?"

Belle wouldn't look at him. It was like his quiet moments, face of stone, when she couldn't read him at all. Simply because she was afraid and didn't know what to do, she said, "Oh, hush." Spoken as if to a child, or a pet.

Oddly, it seemed to do the trick. He let out a mock-offended puff of air, a snort, his hand going back to the fringe of her shawl; amber-gold, honey colored. He said, "Besides, I wasn't _twuly_ calling you a cow. If you must know, I don't find you even remotely bovine. But your thinking is... interesting. I certainly am a good candidate to speak to on such matters. But you go in circles, dearie. You don't exactly follow one step to another. You're non-linear."

"And you move in such straight lines." Belle said. "You're so plain-spoken and direct."

She experienced another of his genuine laughs, and it once more caught her off guard. It was the face of the Imp; the surprised, chest-deep, soft laugh of the man.

"Indeed." he inclined his head, a reclining bow. Gathering himself, he said, "I didn't know.... you were funny."

"Me neither," Belle said. "You must bring out my finer qualities."

He laughed again, but the goblin had returned, aflutter with happy giggles. "Saucy." he said, with what Belle thought was mock arousal. Toying with her shawl had led him to toying with the laces on one of her kitten-heeled, spat boots, and Belle was very aware of it. Appearing to stare at the delicate heel and high arch of her footwear, he puzzled in his sing-song, "Is Rumpelstiltskin a _god_? Is he a faerie? Does he like playing with maids, mad or merry?" (a sly glance at Belle) "Does he worship at midnight in Hell's deepest chapel? Does he grow magic beans, and red, poisoned apples? Does he gather his herbs in the full, waxing moon? Does he cross-dress, and fly though the night on a broom?" And here, a long, trilling, witches cackle.

Then... he was on his hands and knees, a move so quick, such a smooth roll from his side, that Belle was completely flustered to have his face inches from hers, noses almost touching. He faced her like an animal, a languid, big cat, and Belle leaned back with a gasp.

"I do think I'd enjoy it, dearie. Teaching you. Listening to your diatribes and occasional moralizing. Delving into history and folklore as you try and unravel the Dark One. I'm game if you are. _Let's play_."

Not at all certain of what he might be proposing, Belle asked, "Is there a price attached?"

"Good thinking," he purred. He leaned closer to her, as she'd backed away. He invaded her space. His eyes were half-mast and his smile sweet and content. Still as a cat. "No dearie, no price. You're already paying your price... living here, in the dark. With me. Forever."

"Are you certain?" Belle asked, a despicable tremor in her voice. She looked down, hoping to master it. She knew she felt frightened, but thought she also felt excited. Off and on, many moments over many days... Was this desire? "You said I was treated as precious. Maybe you'll come to feel I'm not paying my price."

Tilting his head, left-right, left-right, Rumpelstiltskin said, "Thinking, thinking, thinking... making circles, backwards, forwards. Non-linear. Being precious doesn't mean you're not paying a price, dearie. We both know it. And you _want_ to play... We both know that, too."

"..... I suppose, " Belle murmured.

Rumpelstiltskin sat back on his heels, clapping his hands and giggling his mad giggle. When the fit subsided, he said a quiet, "Yay." And then, "Why did you choose a book called Frogs? Wouldn't you expect it to be about frogs?"

As it had turned out to be, Belle thought, feeling stupid. Amphibians of the world. Pollywogs and tadpoles. She said, "Well, you know. Frogs, witches, warts and whatnot. Frogs were supposed to be... is it _familiars_?"

"Nice. Non-linear. I like it."

Belle was started by a thought. "Is Chloe your familiar?"

"No dearie, she's my cat. She's a huntress extraordinaire. One of the best mousers I've ever known. We can start with this: Though I may be hag-faced, I am not a witch. I may be able to teach you witchcraft, though you do lack a certain focus.

"There are, if you were unaware, faeries in this world and in others, but I am not a faerie. As to gods or a God, I couldn't say, dearie. They may exist, maybe not. When I was a man, no deity ever answered my prayers... I felt very much alone. If there was a God, I lived behind His back."

Oh, Belle thought, sobered.

"As to the Dark One; I am it, it is me, until such time as we may be parted. I would call it a demon, however you'd like to take that. It comes from an underworld.... a place ever in flux, a place that is certainly of death. But also birth, rebirth, et cetera and so forth. It's power comes from there, it is constantly regenerating, and is forever. The demon and I are one, hence my ravishing, good looks; but- no- it does not control me. The weakness, for there is one, I won't share with you just now, dearie. We'll see how our lessons go."

He paused, and Belle, dizzy with his hot enthusiasm, asked, "And magic?"

Coming off of his heels, he moved close to her once more, on hands and knees. His long, sharp nose scented about her face. Belle stayed very still, as if a predator sniffed at her, which might be what was happening. It was more than strange.

"Magic," he murmured. Belle felt her breath catch, painful beneath her sternum. His voice was a low, seductive rasp. Without looking, he tapped a book titled, Medicine Woman.

"It is as you read in this book. It's everywhere, in everything." He caught her eye briefly before resuming his olfactory tour about her head. "I smell it on you, dearie."

"I've only picked up your scent. " Belle whispered. Rumpelstiltskin _purred_ , as if he liked that idea. But he said, "Oh... no. You've your own, love. Magic could be called energy... it's all the same. It is a part of who we all are, it is in scent, a part of the world. The trick is to open yourself to it, not always an easy thing to do. Without the power of the Dark One, I would have to work very hard at it."

His nose, his nostrils, were actually _snuffling_ at her neck, his skin touching her, his lips and chin grazing her, incidentally. Belle exhaled a little puff of air from her nose, body rigid and goose-bumps erupting, she thought, everywhere. He nipples had hardened, hurtful under her bodice.

" _What_ are you doing?" she finally managed.

Maybe she shouldn't have spoken. He whipped himself back upright, crisp and jovial as always. Belle felt the absence of him against her skin quite keenly.

His hands moved about as he spoke. "Sorry dearie," Waggle-waggle. "Sometimes I get rather caught up in the personal power, the _magic_ in others. It always comes as a surprise to sense it, as I'm so awash in my own grrrrrreatnes!" Waggle-sweep=flourish. Forefinger high in the air. Triumph.

Belle smiled with caution. "I see how it would be difficult for you."

In agreement, he nodded his head rapidly.

 


	4. Casting

Belle woke in the night, afraid. Her fire was a low glow of embers, and shadows moved about the room; seeping from deep patches of darkness to cavort, then returning to the black pools from whence they'd come.

Something felt wrong. The room felt lively in a way that made Belle unable to move, and yet she was desperate to get up; to flee.

Don't be ridiculous, she thought. Don't be a child. What could be wrong? What danger could be afoot? I could well be argued that she was in the safest place in all the land. Unless it was her captor she feared...

Unless Rumpelstiltskin had succumbed to the madness for which he was infamous. Unless the demon Dark One had broken from the man, and now dripped malevolence into the very stone of the castle... Into the air.

Unless, unless.

It _was_ a ruminating thing she did, silly cow.

She'd slept in her wool stockings, scratchy though they were, and still the cold seeped into her, up from the floor. The coverlet fell back into place behind her, causing a shadow to leap on the wall. Belle flinched and yelped, feeling a complete fool. She wrapped her shawl tightly about her heavy nightgown and fled.

Quick, padding footsteps down the hall and up steps, not really knowing where she was going, but frantic. Instinctive. It felt as if something trailed her, right on her back. She knew there was nothing there, but the air was thick with _presence_. Belle was harried, Furies close behind; ghouls and wraiths.

She came to Rumpelstiltskin's tower room, a room she seldom entered. It's heavy, iron-bound, wooden door was usually closed, and often sharp, resinous or even sulphurous smells came from beneath. Potions. Curses. Experiments. Secrets.

But the door was open, and air that was freezing cold hit Belle with force, stinging her eyes and making her teeth chatter. She tried to speak, but managed only to whisper Rumpelstiltskin's name.

Be brave. You want to be brave. You _said_ you'd be brave.

Belle crossed the threshold, looking wildly about and not seeing her captor. It wasn't a true wind that accosted her, but a steady, low gusting of cold air. Belle saw that the window over Rumpelstiltskin's desk was thrown wide open, every candle flame in the room shivering and doubling; his papers and parchments rattled and stirred.

She called his name and received no response. Belle padded across the floor to the desk. The wooden chair was turned out... it had clearly been used as a step. Belle employed it for the same, stepping onto the chair seat and then the desk, careful of crystal globes and other implements; innocent looking objects, such as acorns and the empty, paper tunnels of an abandoned wasps' nest. From the heavy desk she could hoist to the window sill, and then she saw him.

He sat on the steeply sloped roof, and an owl sat on the lipped ledge below. His back was to her, and Belle's gorge rose to think of him slipping. He _will not_ , she reminded herself. If he did, he would magic himself aright. For a moment she could do nothing, immobilized by her sheer horror that anything bad, mortal, might befall Rumpelstiltskin.

If he fell... if she _pushed...._ and if the magic did not reach him in time, she would be a hero. She would be the woman who rid all of the land of the Dark One. Her bravery would be renown.

A small sob escaped her. She hadn't realized her upset, that she cried. Her tears must be frozen on her face, in her eyelashes. She would _die_ , she thought. She would _die_ before harm would come to him. Reaching out to him, she said, "Rumpelstiltskin."

The owl looked at her before he did. It was a white owl, snowy, with black markings and eyes similar to his. She would have thought his avian company to be of a darker sort, but owl and Dark One seemed comfortable together. He turned, following the gaze of the owl, and for a moment his eyes seemed unseeing to Belle.

It was true, she thought, shaken and unsettled, knowing her feeling of danger had begun before she'd even woken. There had been a severance. Man, and maybe spirit? There was some sort of schism, so that Rumpelstiltskin's body was there, but empty. And a _presence_ inhabited the castle, the night.

Then his gaze shifted into focus - Belle could almost hear a _click_ when it happened. He was there, he saw her. The _click_ happened again, a second time, and there was even more clarity... in his face and in Belle's head. "Belle." he said, quietly.

"Rumpelstiltskin." she was still crying.

"You mustn't be here... it's freezing."

"What about you?"

"It doesn't bother me, love. Why are you crying?"

"I'm afraid," Belle blurted, too upset to lie. "I feel that something evil is here, and I'm afraid for you."

"You're afraid... _for_ me."

"Yes," Belle reached again. "Please come inside, Rumpelstiltskin."

He turned from her... Did he speak to the owl? It made a shrugging, head-bobbing motion, and then flew into the night, it's wings silent. A white glow and then a swirl of darkness. Rumpelstiltskin glanced up... At the moon? The stars? Then he backwards crabbed his way to the window. He took Belle's hand and held it tightly until he was in the room, standing on the desk with her.

"Alright, dearie," he said. He rubbed her hands between his, warming them, then let go to close the window. Belle stepped down, chair then floor, aware now that she couldn't stop shaking. She felt as though her insides shook, bones rattled and organs trembled. Everything was so much more clear... The room, her sense of time and space. She felt more solid within herself, and still she was unsettled. She couldn't dismiss the feeling as brought on by dreams; a disorientation of sleep.

Rumpelstiltskin hopped down behind her, and when she failed to move, other than shaking, he scooped her up in his arms. "Oh," Belle said, unable to control the stutter brought on by chattering teeth.

"It was foolish of you to come up here, love." he said. It was the second _love_ of the evening, Belle thought. Could he know, could he imagine how she felt to think he could have fallen? That he could be gone from her?

She let her head fall against his chest. His shirt and the heavily embellished waistcoat were cold, but the skin at his collar bones, his neck, was warm. Almost hot. As if pulled, a force like gravity, Belle turned her face to him, seeking heat, her lips just at the opening of his shirt. A soft moan escaped her, and she barely registered that she was moving. He was walking her back to her room, boots ringing out on stone, her body bouncing as he went briskly down steps.

She wanted to ask questions... She had things to say, maybe important things. There were demons, spirits. He should not be on the roof. Did he take his tea with owls? Did he know that she would forsake family and heroism for him? But how could he know, as she'd only just found out.

She was just too cold. Her eyes wanted to close and her body wanted only to fold around Rumpelstiltskin, greedily taking on his heat, his warmth. To be so close to him, her awareness both heightened and muffled, Belle's thoughts ran willy-nilly.... nothing new, she thought. She wanted to drown in his scent; the night air, touched with hemlock and pine, the hard cold and the warmth of the chocolate tobacco, maybe some sort of spirit, fiery. Smoke in his hair, a mossy scent on his fingertips, maybe from the roof... Fingertips, she thought, trying to open her eyes. His hand was on her face, then in her hair.

"Belle?" Everything felt soft an cocooned; then, louder, " _Belle_."

Her eyes opened. She was immersed in hot water that steamed all around her, and he was crouched low, his face near hers. Realization struck, and Belle scrambled, gasping, "Rumpel!" Seeking to cover herself.

"Easy love", he said, a bit of mirth on his face. He could've been speaking to a horse. "Easy, dearie. Look, you're all covered up... you're still in your gown. I had to get you warm."

Belle came back to herself fully, and saw that - yes - her gown floated all about her in the copper tub. Rumpelstiltskin's fingers gripped the lip of the tub, his head in a curious tilt as he watched her in earnest. Letting out a breath, Belle felt her shaking begin to subside.

"Thank you." she whispered.

He said, "Rumpel." Belle looked to see him grinning at her. Silly grin. Terrible teeth. "You called me 'Rumpel'."

"I.. I did?"

"Yes. Thank you, _Rumpel_."

He liked it. She said, "Thank you, Rumpel. Pretend I've curtsied."

"Pretended, dearie."

When the time came, he turned his back while she stripped off the sodden gown, stockings, and dried off. He magiced a big, warm blanket of fur that she wrapped around herself, even cowl-like over her head. Then he walked her, arm about her waist, to her bed. The fire was high in the fireplace, and Belle's room was uncannily warm.

"Magic?"

"Indeed. Why did you come to the tower, Belle?"

"I'm not sure. I woke, and I was frightened, and now it's hard to say why. I felt as if there was something in the castle. Something bad. I felt like the air moved all around me.... What were you _doing_? Is that owl your familiar?"

Belle sat at the edge of the bed, and Rumpelstiltskin crouched at her feet, his forearms on his thighs, looking up at her. His balance, Belle thought, was incredible. So still, on the balls of he feet.

"Neither cat nor owl is my familiar." he said. "I've told you, dearie, I'm not a witch."

"Well, what were you doing?"

"I was casting." he said softly. His mouth, his lips looked soft to Belle. Her hand almost reached out to touch his lips, his face. She clenched her hand into a small fist, hidden in the fur.

"Casting?" _Fishing?_

"A spell, dearie. Or, in this case, I was casting about for the way to complete a spell. Searching. The owl was a willing participant. If you come to truly study witchcraft, you'll find that the animal kingdom can be most helpful."

"You were on the roof, searching for a spell with an owl?"

"Aye."

Belle blinked. "What was here? With me?"

A guilty look, a sheepish look overtook Rumpelstiltskin's face. "It was a part of me, I imagine."

"A _dark_ part?"

"All of the parts are dark, dearie." He rose up fluidly, as if she was a snake charmer and he a snake. He sat on the bed beside her, very close. Hip to hip. But for her wrap, they would touch.

"But what do you mean by that?" she asked, a bit of her trembling returned. "Part of you".

Hands before him, palms up, he said, "To cast, to search, I shared the body of the owl. Part of me was in the owl, and owls can go to a place that's unformed.... think of an unmapped place, something like a womb, but it's an actual place. Both still and chaotic - a place of power - magically speaking.

"Owls, crows, sometimes cats or foxes; they can go to this place and carry my thought, my intent, because I am there, in the animal. In that place my thought becomes material, real. Germinated. And then the animal returns and I can complete my spell... make what germinated manifest.

"It's much more quick and seamless than when I describe it, but that's the process.

"With part of me in the owl and casting, that leaves part of me unguarded. Vulnerable, but also possibly dangerous. Not whole. Probably a curious, seeking tendril of myself slipped away to see what you were up to."

Belle turned to look at him, wary. "But it felt _evil_." she said.

The look he gave her implied she was somewhat missing the obvious.

"You don't seem evil to me." she said, scowling.

"Well, don't say too loud, dearie. I have a reputation to maintain. You're just too generous in your opinion of me. I expect it's a trick of self preservation, given your predicament."

Belle scowled again, catching herself before she muttered, _that's crap_. "You've been kind to me," she insisted. "Tonight, for instance. You cared for me. You were even respectful as you cared for me. Now I feel like I'm not alone... that if something should happen to me - an injury or illness - you'll care for me."

He glanced away from her, scratching his head. Like a befuddled old man. It was kind of cute, she thought. Glancing at her, then away again, he said, "No. You're not alone."

"See?" Belle smiled. "And I'll care for you. We'll help each other. Care for each other."

"That's rather flowery, dearie. A tad over the top. Our mutual company came from negotiation."

Belle shrugged, pressing her lips together. "But that's how it is." she said. "Who else is there?"

Standing, Rumpelstiltskin said, "Point taken, then."

".... Don't leave me..." Belle said upon the instant. She felt her eyes plead. He was pulling away, he would say goodnight. Bravery be damned, she would _not_ be alone in this room again.

Flatly, he said, "What." He scanned her face and eyed the bed.

"Please don't." she said, feeling small. Clutching the fur to herself, she slipped out a hand and held one of his, dangling at his side. He stared at it as if dumbfounded. _We've touched so much, tonight_ , Belle thought.

"I hardly think...." he began, then seemed to lose his way. He met her eyes. "Belle... what frightened you earlier was _me_. No matter what it felt like to you. Do you understand? It's not a good idea for me to stay in your bedroom."

"Please." she said, again. Her grip on his hand tightened.

Quietly, he said, "I didn't bring you here for this."

"For what?"

Meeting her eyes, he said, "To fuck you."

Something happened to Belle, then. Her head, always busy sorting and cataloguing, tucking things away, labeled, to be studied later; It was of no use to her. It was in a wordless, nearly picture-less panic, and it was her body that communicated with her. Her blood.

Her body warmed, but it was not a gentle thing. It was a hot rush, painful at her chest, stinging at her lips... so intense at her lower belly, between her legs, she nearly rocked her pelvis with a moan. How did she remain still, her hand touching his, meeting his eyes? A storm had let loose inside of her.

So now she knew. No more tip-toeing around the notion, thinking it couldn't be... because everyone else, maybe even Rumpelstiltskin, would believe it couldn't be. She wanted him. She desired him. She, who hadn't known desire. She cared for him.

It was difficult to lie, but the rush of blood, the almost terrible wakefulness between her legs, was too shocking, too personal to bring out in the open. She brought his hand between them, holding it in both of hers. He wasn't a big man, but his palm, his fingers, engulfed her small hands. Her hands looked like a child's.

"Can you not just sleep here?" she asked, her voice small; shrinking, she thought, from truth.

She watched the rise and fall of his chest as he stared at her. Seldom did she see him so agitated.... He seemed to not know what to do. Belle turned his hand over in hers, quietly marveling at the pinkish hue of his palm, the blood -the man? - beneath the darker tone where his flesh was more vulnerable. She wondered about the rest of his trim body, tracing her finger over the lines of his palm. His fingers, curled, made a reflexive jump. Belle heard his sharp inhalation.

Looking up at him, she said, "I know.... I'm a pain in the arse."

At that, tension between them diminished, if it did not quite break. Rumpelstiltskin gave an uncertain smile. "It will soothe you?" he asked. "For me to stay?"

"Yes. Very much."

Belle didn't know if she was vexed or relieved, but when he climbed onto her bed, he remained fully clothed; waistcoat, boots, all of it. Belle snuggled under her covers, fur wrap in a death grip, but Rumpelstiltskin remained on top of the covers, rather rigid. He lay on his back, long fingers laced over his chest.

"Goodnight, love." he said, his voice a quiet rasp that Belle had come to think of as _hers_.

"Goodnight, Rumple." she said. She curled into herself, laying on her side, and sleep came for her so heavily, she wondered if it was a spell. And then she was gone.

 


	5. Sleeping Spell

Faint, periwinkle light at the edges of the curtains woke Belle, and then she heard a light snoring. She was confused, uncertain as to where she was. A warm body was pressed against her back, wrapped around her.... Was she at home, with her maid? They'd often shared a bed in the coldest part of the year, and Leah snored.

She remembered, then, the wildness in the middle of the night. Rumpelstiltskin in her bed.

He must have changed his mind about appropriateness, for he was under the covers with her. The fur wrap still surrounded her, a cocoon within the bedclothes, but it had ridden a ways up her legs. She felt Rumpelstiltskin's legs entwined with hers.... his bare legs. His bony feet. This was peculiar. Maybe shocking. Belle breathed with care.

Everything felt so soft and warm. If there had been a spell of sleep, it lingered still, it's layer of feather-softness and milky-baby, sleep scent still touching everything in the room.... touching the two of them. Belle moved slowly, gently, loathe to disturb either man or spell. Her legs moved in soft, slow swimmer's motions, and - to her surprise - she felt soft hairs on Rumpelstiltskin's legs. She'd thought he would be hairless, lizard-like, as people said. His skin was warm, soft; the hair felt downy, like a boy's. Belle's feet felt the contour of muscle and bone... shin and ankle, the bones of his feet and toes.

 _Toes._ She paused to think on his toes. Would the nails be black? Why were toes funny, when fingers were not?

Though he still snored, his body moved with her. His legs moved warmly against hers, and - muffled through the thick fur - Belle felt his hips, his pelvis, sometimes press against her. His arms were wrapped about her, one beneath the fur... Belle tried to still her mind to the close, intimate embrace.

She remembered, then, that she was naked within her fur wrap. That set off another little shock. Rumpelstiltskin's arm draped over her waist, his hand beneath the fur was at her belly, his curled fingers grazing her just beneath the fall of her breast.

Belle wondered what prompted him to get undressed and climb under the covers. He still wore his shirt, a big, loose, tunic-like shirt in a deep, walnut brown. But, unless he wore some sort of drawers under his tight, leather trousers, (what would _that_ look like, Belle wondered), then the shirt was all he wore.

Inexperienced to an embarrassing extreme for her age, Belle couldn't make it past the thought that they were naked in the bed together. There she remained, in fear, embarrassment; excitement.

A snore that was part snort, louder than he'd been, made Belle jump a little. Her limbs tingled with the start, and she muttered, "sheesh." As if he'd heard her, Rumpelstiltskin shifted, his snore subsiding back to a purr and a breath. Wriggling, trying to somehow stay within the touch of arms and legs, Belle turned to her other side... so as to watch him. He looked so different, she thought! For one, and a great surprise to Belle, he looked older. His coppery-chestnut curls were pushed back from his forehead, splayed over her pillow, and she saw how his hairline receded from a widow's peak and over his temples. At the sides of his temples, and throughout his sideburns, were iridescent, silvery-white hairs. They were catching the growing light, still lavender-blue; they were like threads made of gossamer, dragonfly wings.

In repose, his face looked rather troubled. Worry, concern marked his forehead, brow somewhat furrowed. In the play of light, filtering into the shadowy room, Belle stared at the incredible work of muscle and bone his face presented, beneath the overlay of oddly, darkened skin. Skin that seemed sometimes to sparkle with glints of mica.

She wanted to touch him, to trace the long, narrow ridge of his nose, his lips - in the soft pucker of his snore. She wanted to feel the bones of his jaw and cheek, both so sculpted, and to feel the hollows below. She supposed her initial impression must be true.... he must be an odd looking creature, far from the specimens the world labeled as "handsome". But, in truth, she couldn't say she didn't find him handsome. She felt as though she could study his form, forever.

However, her bladder thought otherwise. She shifted a bit, trying to find a place where it was less pressing, less intrusive to her thoughts and investigation. She was _not_ going to use the chamber pot with Rumpelstiltskin in the room.

His eyelashes, yet more gossamer, mica, fluttered at her shifting, but remained closed. The snore ceased, and was taken up by deep, even breathing. Unable to stop herself, Belle worked on hand free of the fur and bedclothes, and began to stroke her forefinger down the length of his nose. Bridge to tip, slowly, that bony, widening bump in the middle. "Rumpelstiltskin," she whisper-called, in a sing-song reminiscent of his own cadence. "Wakey-wakey, Rumpel."

It took a few seconds, but then his eyelashes gave another flutter. A hint of color before his eyes were closed, and then.... his eyes slowly opened. It was such a strange completion to the picture of his face, and one that Belle would never tire of seeing. Amber eyes, so dark in this light as to almost pass for a shimmery brown. His eyes seemed nearly all iris... this was why they were like a cat or an owl... or hawk... some sort of predator, built to see at night. Predator iris, shot through with crystal, in this light dark with dilated pupils. (Colored like the stone, tiger's eye, Belle thought. Perhaps she wanted such a stone to carry as a talisman. An amulet. A charm.)

He looked a little as he had on the roof, that unseeing gaze, and Belle wondered if part of him was off again, flying with the owl. But then his focus returned, no _click_ this time. He simply became more wakeful, and Belle registered that he was re-forming the night and his surroundings, just as she had. He was surprised to see her, (and to _feel_ her, warm and close), and was remembering.

"Hello, dearie." he said, his voice a reverent sort of quiet that fit the room.

"Hello, Rumpel."

He found her hand, the one that had touched his nose, curled on the bedclothes. He clasped it, eyes closing again, his thumb stroking over her palm. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it.

Belle was frozen, captured in a state of watching and feeling, and his eyes opened again, his mouth still pressed to her hand.

"I believe you're already working on your witchery." he said, lips tickling her, mouth widening into a smile.

"Yes?"

"Yes."

He rolled to his back, letting go of her hand so that Belle, possessive now of his touch, brought her hand to nestle in a warm curl beneath her chin. Rumpelstiltskin yawned hugely, a jaw-cracking, loud, body-stretching yawn. It was a completely normal, waking-up thing to do, and yet Belle was beguiled, watching him. Guiltily, she realized she was curious in the manner of being curious when an animal does something that seems strikingly human.

Rumpelstiltskin pushed himself upright, hands rubbing over his face, pushing through his hair. Belle tracked everything, wide-eyed. "I don't usually sleep like that. " he said. "I'm rarely even in a bed, reclined. I get twitchy, you know, dearie." one of his wrinkled-nose, sneering faces, hands aloft. "Too much nervous energy, work to do and whatnot. Gentry to kill and babies to eat." He favored her with one of his bad-toothy smiles, and Belle gave a look.

"Mm-hm."

"See what sort of creature you've invited to your bed?"

"I see."

"But you, dearie... I think you knocked me out with a sleeping spell. And..." Now he looked horrified, lifting the bedclothes and peeking comically down at himself. Belle's blood froze and then surged, wanting to see what he saw.

He gasped, bringing the bedclothes securely over himself once more, and turned his mortified look on Belle. "I fear you've taken advantage of me, dearie." he said, black-nailed fingers splayed over his chest. "It seems I'm in _me starkers_."

Laughing, Belle said, "That wasn't _my_ doing, Rumple. Maybe there's some little sprite around here who wants to get up to mischief with you."

"There is, " he said, wisely. "A little sprite called _Belle._ She's such a pain in the arse. ... _Oh_. Dearie me." He looked theatrically around his hip. "You don't think she'd have violated... _me arse!"_

It was too much. Belle flung herself to her back, arm over her eyes, and said, " _Rumpelstiltskin!"_

"Rumpel."

She peeked an eye out, then yelped to feel her nipple captured and pinched. She moved instinctively to cover up and protect herself, embarrassed, perhaps a bit humiliated. Still, she fought her body, the new, aching sensation of belly and sex, exacerbated by the sharp pressure of her bladder. Sitting up, clasping the fur blanket to her chest, she looked at Rumpelstiltskin with accusation and disbelief.

In return, he looked happily sheepish. Perhaps embarrassed, like herself, but not at all penitent.

Talking with his hands, as always, he said, "A titty escaped. It had to be lassoed."

Belle's jaw dropped, and, shrugging, Rumpelstiltskin said, "It was a very lovely, rogue titty, dearie. You've nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, were I you, I would be proud. I would go topless at all times, showing my pride. A credit to country and family."

When Belle didn't reply, still stunned, he gave a little, self-satisfied nod, agreeing with himself.

"That.... was rude." Belle finally managed. She added, "I have to pee." With her cheeks and chest bright red and the knowledge of her undress, the war between mind and body raging, she could only be blunt.

At that, Rumpelstiltskin looked mildly ashamed. _Good_ , Belle thought. His gaze was cast down to his steepled fingers, mouth in a frown.... or possibly a pout. He said, "I'm sorry I upset you, dearie. I'm a vulgar man."

Belle only nodded, not knowing what to say. In truth, she was afraid for him to leave the room, even her bed, for fear she would never again achieve such closeness. But the need to empty her bladder was quite real, and she needed time to gather herself. To think. Her body had her in a state of whirling, rushing impulse.

Clearing his throat, Rumpelstiltskin moved in a shy way to leave the bed. Skinny, though nicely formed legs emerged from the covers, a bit comical once he stood. His shirt ballooned around him, hanging to mid-thigh, giving the appearance of a child in his nightie. _Wee Willie Winkie._ Belle felt a faint smile lift her face, quirking to the side. She bit the corner of her bottom lip, trying to contain it, feeling the smile in her eyes.

"Oh, yes. Be mirthful, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin smirked, rummaging for his leather. Belle watched him step into the breeches, tugging them up his thighs, careful to stay covered by the shirt. "You see, I've got my own slight case of nudity to deal with. Have you any idea how long it's been since I've been in even the most minimal state of undress with another? Hm, love? And - to be clear - with _this_ body, courtesy of the Dark One."

He gathered up boots, stockings, waistcoat. He smiled in a close-lipped way, and Belle felt tension. There was a wariness in his eyes... a cat trying to decide if it was okay to take the food being offered.

She said, "I know you've lived so much longer than me, but this is the first time in all my life I've been in any state of undress with a man. Or shared a bed. Even my father... never bathed me or did any of those things... I always had nurses, governesses, handmaids... a world of women. Maybe I understand how you feel, a little, Rumpel."

" _Feel_?" He nearly mocked, the word a hiss, his posture very upright.

"Yes. _Feel_. It's a thing that some do. You know... people."

"I'm not people, dearie." Oh... he was suiting up with his bloody-minded, Dark One armor, Belle thought. Smile turned mean, sarcastic about the eyes. All of those darkened, crooked teeth that it seemed she'd cared nothing about while she watched him snore.

She took a deep breath, puffing out her cheeks as she blew it out.

"It _feels_ vulnerable, scary, to be so intimate with another." she said. "There's a fear, maybe childish, of not being accepted. That's how I feel, and I don't care for feeling vulnerable. I _know_ that you don't."

The meanness in his smile faltered, and he said, "Well," glancing down at the things he held in his hands. Addressing those things, he said, "I am sorry, Belle, that I behaved so rudely. I was a bit... giddy."

A giggle bubbled up from Belle that startled her. She wasn't much of a giggler. Rumpelstiltskin looked at her, his smile becoming true. He walked, barefoot... yes, his toenails were black, at the ends of long toes... around the bed, coming to her side. Leaning over, he hesitated, eyes flickering briefly to hers. Then he kissed her cheek.

Belle's eyelashes fluttered, her breathing arrested. She watched him, so casually disheveled, walk to the door.

"Rumpel?"

"Yes, love." He swiveled to her at once.

"Thank you for staying with me in the night."

He performed a gallant, barefoot, loose-shirted bow, and was gone.

 


	6. Technically

Belle stood at the enormous, hulking cast iron oven, porridge in a cast iron pot. Black on black. Simple fare, Belle thought, that Rumpelstiltskin had taught her to make. She'd even had to be taught about the tea, which embarrassed her, now. Boiling water and dried leaves...

He was behind her, sitting at the thick-planked, pine table, teapot before him. (Under a cozy, to keep it warm, which amused Belle for some reason.) He sipped tea. His long pipe was on the table, unlit. Belle had noticed he liked to lean back and smoke when his belly was full.

"It's absurd that you do this," he said, mildly. "You know you're provided for in every way, here. My magic is your servant, dearie. You needn't cook for me."

In spite of his words, Belle thought she heard pleasure in his voice. She turned a bit, glancing over her shoulder at him. Making eyes. She smiled, taking in his smile in return, skirt making a rustling swish as she turned back to the stove. Was this flirting?

"Almost done." she said. "Are you hungry?"

"Famished. Which is strange.... I'm never hungry, dearie, and I never sleep. It's witchcraft, I tell you. I've been bewitched. Your innocence is feigned."

"Oh, if only." Belle sighed.

Rumpelstiltskin chuckled.

Belle served them both in chunky, earthenware bowls, russet clay with swirls of a sky-blue glaze. She poured tea for herself, adding a little cream from a small, earthenware pitcher. She liked these things. She'd grown up with the finest, gold-rimmed, painted porcelain; milk-glass and cut crystal; chargers of silver and gold, everything gleaming and sparkling. Even her porridge had been served in white, bone china with shining silverware, the spoon-end dipped in gold, the handle encrusted in silver roses.

Rumpelstiltskin had fine things, rich things. Cabinets full. But in his everyday life he used simple, common dinnerware and utensils. It came as a relief to Belle, who wasn't prepared for the challenges of complex cooking and food preparation; or the setting of a noble table. The fired clay and cast iron soothed her, and felt welcoming.

His mouth full, Rumpelstiltskin indicated with his spoon that she add some cream from her little pitcher to his porridge. Even sharing a meal, Belle thought, had an intimate feel. It seemed always surprising to her when Rumpelstiltskin did ordinary things.

"Is it good?" she asked, settling into her own breakfast.

He twirled his spoon in the air as he chewed, leaning heavily on his elbows. Swallowing, he said, "Well, it's porridge, dearie. Some call it gruel. But yes, it's very good. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

They ate in comfortable near-silence, Belle once remarking that he truly must have been famished. He ate rather quickly, often making muffled sounds of , "mm", brow furrowed in concentration. Once finished, he poured another cup of tea, leaned back, and began feeding his pipe from a small, leather pouch of tobacco. Belle, watching him, felt enormously, lazily content.

Chloe-the-Cat jumped into his lap, and he stroked her fur as he smoked. Belle tried not to feel jealous.

"So," she said, toying with her spoon, mellowing with the sweet smoke, even as Rumpelstiltskin did. "You said it had been a long time since you were in a state of undress in front of another."

The look he gave her was appalled. Belle smiled, and said, "When was it? Were you ever married?"

"Curious little girl." he quipped. Sing-song. He spoke to Chloe, "We know what happens to curious cats." Unperturbed, Chloe cranked her purr up a notch, gazing at Rumpelstiltskin with blatant, worshipful adoration.

"I'm not a little girl. " Belle said. "As you demonstrated earlier this morning."

"Oh. Right." He grinned at Chloe.

"So tell me."

He spent some time blowing smoke rings, and then an impressive smoke dragon. Belle was patient, sipping tea.

"I was married when I was a man." he finally said, still seeming to address Chloe. "That was so long before your time... it hardly even seems real. It wasn't a happy marriage. Maybe it had some happy moments. But after taking on the Dark One's power... well." He looked at her finally. "Look at me, Belle. How many women do you think would care to take me on? To _touch_ me, or be touched by me?"

 _I would_ , Belle thought. She said, with a teasing look, "I thought perhaps you'd abducted a woman or two. Made deals."

He giggled, eyes going briefly to her breasts. Belle blushed.

"No, dearie. Or, well. Yes, there was one deal, though no abduction. And that was also well before your time. A deal to rescue a damsel in distress. What I wanted in return was her child, for I'd foreseen the child's usefulness to me."

" _What?"_ Belle was shocked.

"Oh, come on, dearie. I know you've heard tales of Rumpelstiltskin trading in babies. Not that it's exactly true, but , in this case, that's what I wanted."

"She agreed? Did you get the child?"

"Yes, and not quite." Belle waited. "She tricked me, dearie. A relationship formed... maybe love. In the end she stole power and knowledge from me, and re-worked our deal... rather right out from under me. I was an idiot, a lapdog. I suppose I might have acquiesced to anything she proposed."

"You _did_ love her." Belle said, surprised.

Rumpelstiltskin shrugged. "Maybe. I'm not sure. Certainly I admired her. And I lusted for her." Grin.

Belle's cheeks went through another heated flare-up, caused by a jealousy much more intense than what she'd felt towards Chloe. "Oh." she said. Please, she told herself. You weren't even born. That, too, was passing strange. "Who was she?"

"Oh... at the time, she was no one. A peasant. The daughter of a miller who had gotten himself overrun with debt. But she became the mother of the Queen."

"Really? What Queen?"

" _The_ Queen." Rumpelstiltskin fixed his weird eyes on her. As in Long Live. Regina."

Belle had a moment of disorientation, disbelief. Then she said, almost in a whisper, "The _evil_ Queen?"

Rumpelstiltskin giggled. "She has quite a reputation, it's true. And the wardrobe to match. She rivals me, in some circles. In both evil and wardrobe."

"And _she's_ the child you wanted?"

"Indeed."

"Why?"

"Oh, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin said, "that's definitely a conversation for another time. If ever. You've already plied my tongue quite enough, with your witchcraft and free-range titties and whatnot."

Letting her spoon clatter to the bowl, Belle exclaimed, "Would you stop saying that word?!"

Rumpelstiltskin looked perplexed. Splaying his long fingers, pipe discarded, he said, "Titties?"

"Yes. _Yes_. For the love of god, _yes_! It makes me think of sniggering stable boys and rude soldiers. It feels insulting."

Now he made a wide, theatrical gesture, hands sweeping to encompass the general area occupied by her bosom. "I would _never_ be insulting about those, dearie."

Belle's head dropped into her hands.

"Well, what word would you prefer?"

"I don't know," she said to the table. "In books they always say 'breasts'".

"Ah. _Rrrrrrromance_ books?"

"I suppose."

"And I suppose", Rumpelstiltskin smiled, "that our lovely _Belle_ is attracted to the letter B, as befits her name. Beautiful Belle, with her Bountiful Bosom, who likes Books, Birds, Bees... And did I mention her _Breasts_ , Both Bouncy and Bouyant? And see how she Blushes." His smile was wide, and Belle covered her face with both hands.

He said, "You know, there are some linguists who associate the early formation, or evolution of the letter B with the goddesses of old, because of all of the letters, it is the letter B that looks like breasts. You, my dear, may have connections to powerful, ancient sources of love, lust and fertility. I would _believe_ it, given your inclination to witchery and seduction. It explains some things."

Peeking up from her hands, Belle asked, "Is that true?"

"Witchery and seduction? You tell me. My guess is that it's quite true."

"No... about the letter B? The goddess part."

Still smiling broadly, Rumpelstiltskin said, "Aye, dearie. So it _be_. Go and _browse_ your _books_ , and ye shall come to _believe_."

Belle thought on that, distracting herself from the walk-on, cameo role of her breasts. Rumpelstiltskin resumed his leisurely pipe smoking, legs crossed and Chloe in closed-eyed contentment. He said, "Now it's my turn. I want to ask a question."

"Okay." Belle said. She was watching the dangling, leather-booted foot on his crossed leg, thinking of the letter B.

"I take it from your earlier, 'world of women' comment that you're still a maid. Which is not to say an _old_ maid." He looked at Belle expectantly, but she demurred.

"That's not a question."

He smiled around his pipe; Belle thought in approval. She stood and collected the dishes, turning from him as she prepared to clean up.

"Well, then," he asked, "are you a maid?"

Her back to Rumpelstiltskin, Belle shrugged one shoulder. She said, "I guess not technically."

Tending the dishes, it was some moments before she realized the silence that had fallen. Then her own words struck her, and she closed her eyes. The damn smoke, she thought. It had once again muddled her. She contemplated whirling around with a big smile and saying _Who wants dessert??_ Though they'd just broken their fast. When she finally made herself turn around, Rumpelstiltskin was staring at her so frankly, it was like a touch.

He said. " _What_. Does _that_ mean?"

Drying her hands on her apron, then untying the apron, Belle said, "Nothing. I don't know. I misspoke. I don't want to talk about it."

"Oh no, dearie. Talk you will, after a statement like that. What on earth does it mean?"

Belle sat heavily in her chair. Slump shouldered, legs splayed, unladylike. Frowning, she said, "It means... It means I'm not a maiden, but I've never been with a man."

"And how does that work?" Rumpelstiltskin asked.

Belle's face briefly scrunched, as if trying to suppress a sneeze. Then she said, "No... You have secrets. All sorts. I can have a secret, too. You'll just have to live with it."

"I'm afraid I can't, dearie." He leaned his chair back on two legs, heels up on the table, legs crossed at the ankle. "I really must insist. You've made quite a statement for a nobleman's daughter."

The sound Belle made was almost a snort. But then she looked at her lap and said, "It's just... embarrassing."

"It's just you and me, dearie."

When she said nothing, he said, "I'll hound you, endlessly. I'll ply you with truth spells. Or liquor, whichever works better. You won't sleep, for my prying. That's the level of my intrigue. _And I have forever_." He practically sang those words, orchestrating with his pipe, like a conductor.

Belle sat up straight and folded her hands in her lap. Prim. Highborn. She couldn't look at Rumpelstiltskin... Or even at Chloe, who seemed so compact, blameless and proprietary over him.

"When I was a girl," Belle said, with a slight shudder, "young, a noble family of some distant relation came to stay with my family for awhile. There was a daughter near my age, and so - of course - we were put together as playmates. To keep each other company." She stopped; she didn't think she could voice her little story. She'd told no-one.

"Yes?" Rumpelstiltskin prompted. "The quaint and cozy lives of the highborns. Go on."

His light mockery of her station didn't help. Belle's hands unfolded and worried at the fabric of her skirt, then refolded. "She was a bit precocious, I suppose."

"In what way?" Rumpelstiltskin sounded interested.

"Um. About boys?"

"Oh, a slut. I've always liked sluts."

Belle frowned. She hadn't thought that, exactly. But then again, she'd been quite naive. She felt that, in a lot of ways, she still was.

Rumpelstiltskin said, "So, this highborn, blossoming purveyor of the erotic led you to _technically_ lose your maidenhead?"

That summed it up. Letting out a breath, Belle said, "Yes," hoping he would come to his own conclusions as to the specifics. He scooted Chloe from his lap to the floor, where she threw him a look of _well, I never_ , before she set to washing, her back turned to he and Belle. He settled his chair back down... he discarded his pipe and folded his arms across his chest, eyes shrewd. Oh, good. She had his full attention.

"And?" he said. "Details, dearie."

Now Belle blushed furiously. It was worse, she thought, than her escaped breast. That exposure was nothing like this. She bit her lip, and was taken off guard to hear Rumpelstiltskin make a soft, appreciative sound. Like a purr, a very quiet, "mm". But when she glanced at him, he gave no sign of anything other than keen observation.

"Dearie."

"Yes. Well. We played games of imagination, playing house, that sort of thing. She introduced the idea of play... lovemaking." Belle's throat tightened, making her voice a bit thick. "Taking turns playing wife or husband. Kissing."

"You kissed?"

Belle nodded.

"On the lips?"

"Yes."

Rumpelstiltskin leaned forward, forearms on the table, head tilted. A mad, inquisitive bird, Belle thought. A cat, observing prey.

"A peck, or open-mouthed?"

"Oh, what does it matter, Rumpelstiltskin? You already know the ending."

"It matters, dearie. Details always matter. You really must indulge me."

Belle heaved a martyred sigh, and said, "Open-mouthed."

"Ah. Dearie, dearie, dear."

"I _know_." Belle said, miserable. "It was bad of us. Wrong."

"It's rather _interesting_." Rumpelstiltskin said. "Do go on, my lovely Queen of B. Did you like the kissing?"

The question surprised Belle. She hadn't let herself think of this episode of her life, even in the time in which it happened. Once the visiting family departed, she put it away, as if it never happened. Not long after, she lost her mother, and that dominated her every thought for years.

She tried, but with little success, to overcome her shame and embarrassment enough to recall the physical sensations she'd felt. It was difficult. Her head was filled with pictures of herself, a little chubby with baby fat at that age; and images of the girl... a skinny, blonde thing, her face rather openly manipulative. She couldn't truly remember _feeling_ , but she remembered pursuit of _what's next... what happens now?_ Curiosity, as Rumpelstiltskin said.

"I don't know. I don't remember." she said, speaking to her folded hands. "I must have liked it. I wasn't forced."

"Where did your kissing game lead you, dearie? Were you naked, together, for your 'lovemaking'?" He framed the word with theatrical hands, making Belle feel rather stupid. Belle nodded, and Rumpelstiltskin said, "Goodness."

Here it became even more difficult. Feeling as if she said something almost criminal, Belle said, "She had.... a toy."

"A toy?"

"Yes. I can't imagine where she got it. She said it was meant to be a stand-in for a... husband."

Rumpelstiltskin stared at her for a long moment, then asked, "Was this _toy_ called a _dildo_?" He sounded incredulous.

Belle's eyes flashed at that; it was the very word the girl had used, but Belle had never heard it, before or since. Was this something people _knew_ about? "That's what she said."

"My. This lass _was_ precocious, dearie. Was she older than you?"

"She may have been, " Belle shrugged. "I'm not sure."

He waited, his eyes burning into her. Let's get this over with, Belle thought. He must already know the conclusion, given the surprise that he knew about the toy; it's nature. But she could see that he wanted to hear it. He was intensely interested in watching her as she spoke it.

Belle said, "She'd either already used the... toy... Or she'd been with a man. A boy, more like. She showed me how to... use it." Belle did recall her shock, then, tinged with fear of the unknown and an act she knew, instinctively, was private. She remembered the girl's open legs, shiny-pink blur of sex, all the more startling because Belle hadn't paid much mind to her own. The remembered the toy sliding into the girl, who's private parts seemed so much more _open_ than her own, and how her insides had clenched to see it. She'd feared pain, but now thought she'd felt arousal... that was the clenching, the bearing down of her insides. It was not long after that the girl and her family had departed.

"She told me that it felt good, and asked if I wanted to feel it."

"And you did."

Belle met his eyes, but only for a moment. His gaze was too frank, too straightforward to bear. She said, "I'm not sure. I remember being afraid... I remember that she called me a 'baby'. But, yes. I think, especially after all of the kissing, touching, being lost in imagination... I wanted to. I wanted to know. So she... you know."

"She put it... _inside_ you." Rumpelstiltskin was clearly in eye-rolling, utterly thrilled shock.

Belle nodded. "Not... very much, I don't think. And not for very long, because it hurt. I panicked. But I bled, which I didn't understand at the time, so I think..."

"That's your 'technically' ."

"Yes."

Rumpelstiltskin put a hand to the side of his face and stared at her, jaw dropped. "I am _amazed_." he said. "I am _scandalized_."

"Oh, please don't."

"No, really, dearie. I had no idea highborn girls got up to such mischief." He paused, visibly fidgeting in his chair. "I feel like I _must_ tell someone."

Belle's eyes flashed up in complete, blue-blaze panic, and he smiled. "Who would I tell?" he asked, hands before him. "I'm simply so stunned. And not a little torn, love."

"Torn?"

"Well, yes. One the one hand, to think of you, my sweet-yet-prim Queen of B, in this situation... your willingness to explore... the intriguing element of your shame... It's rather exciting, Belle."

Belle didn't know what to say. Her _shame_... was _interesting_? Exciting?

"But, on the other.... well, had you been my daughter, I'd have flayed your little friend alive, I'm afraid. Kissing and playing is one thing, but she took things rather far."

"I agreed to it." Belle said.

"I doubt you understood what you agreed to." he scoffed. "It would have been different if you were older."

They regarded one another, Rumpelstiltskin with probing interest and Belle with caution. As she calmed somewhat, the ordeal over, she asked, "Do you think of me differently, now?"

"Oh, yes!" Rumpelstiltskin said, grandly.

Belle flinched. "Do you think worse of me?"

Looking surprised, he said, "No, dearie. Did you think I set some high, moral value on maidenhood? Aside from it's use in certain spells, I don't think on it at all."

"But... You asked me specifically that... If I was a maid."

"I'm curious about you, dearie. More so, now that I've been your bedmate. Do you really care what I think of you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because," Belle said, suddenly breathless. "Because I like you. Rumpelstiltskin."

Rumpelstiltskin slowly leaned back in his chair. He regarded her for long moment, and a shyness seemed to overtake him. Belle thought she saw the odd, ember-blush, his eyelashes cast down. Shy now, when he had not been during her story.

"Indeed." he said, quietly to himself. Looking back up at Belle, he said, "I like you too, Belle. Even though you're a pain in the arse."

 


	7. Rumpelstiltskin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahoy! Here be dragons... Or, actually, smut.

Rumpelstiltskin was seldom in his bedroom. As such, it was a modest place, small and simple. When he wasn't being a showman, he had little use for opulence, for riches... Only for the comfort riches could secure.

~ Except when it came to magical objects and trophies. For those, he cared a great deal. He liked to see those objects displayed, enjoying a certain degree of gloat. Everything, from the most exquisite, jewel-encrusted sword to an otherwise innocent-looking piece of string... if it was magic, it mattered. It was for show, as part of his estate and power.

The bedroom he'd given Belle was a bit grand, but comfortable. He'd wanted her to be aware of his wealth and power, and yet to feel at home, as much as she could. That room had been a balancing act of big pieces of furniture that were yet simple in design, a fireplace large and rustic, made with veined stones of river rock; her adjacent water closet of deep blue tile and copper tub, it's appearance sleigh-like. He added touches as he came to know her; a willow reed basket near her bed for the books she wanted near; the honey-scented soap she favored in the water closet. The shawl... for he'd noticed she was often chilly in the Dark Castle.

His own room was a pauper's, by comparison. A monk's cell, were the monk well off. His bed was comfortable enough, but small and single. His fireplace, also, was small, framed in fired tile with a pine plank for a mantle. He had one narrow window, and it had the only real embellishment in the room: Three, vertically stacked diamond shapes in stained glass, the glass framed in iron. The diamonds were in sapphire blue, amber-gold and a deep, blood red.

He liked to have iron about, as well as the mineral, salt. Most of the castle's windows, whether or not made with stained glass, were framed in iron. The only object on his mantle was a large crystal of black salt, about the size of his hand. Faeries could not abide either, as they were an integral part of both blood and earth-based magic, those things being something of a bane against fae magic. (Fair folk, Good Neighbors... me arse, he thought.) Rumpelstiltskin felt secure in the Dark Castle, knowing it's abundance of iron salt, both seen and unseen.

He'd parted from Belle when they'd completed breaking their fast. When she'd completed her tale. He'd come to his seldom occupied room, for he didn't know where to go... what to do with himself. His head was spinning and his body was alarmingly alive, sensitive to sensation, in a way that could be thought to be as disorienting as the magic of the fae. Invisible elf-shot... spells, sprung from the misty realms...

But Belle was no faerie. She was a woman, and hot-blooded, at that. It made him smile, both in lust and in what he took as revenge against faeries... Their sort was so deeply attracted to the warmth, the heat of such people as Belle, and yet it was their very blood the fae couldn't tolerate. The nature of it, surging about in human veins, delivering the body's nutrients, and messages; the _iron_ in it. They were made of finer stuff, spirit stuff. Their shapes were malleable, as were their natures.

Not so, Belle. His fingers twitched to remember the feel of her nipple, the hot, little ruddy spoke he claimed, her breast radiating warmth in the chilled room. His lips felt swollen with his own blood, recalling the feel of her hand against them, her soft cheek. His cock swelled with unruly blood, blood the fae would run from, and rightly so. It was overly hot, and he was needy... and nearly at a loss for how to answer this demand.

Standing in the middle of his small room, the cell, his eyes seeing only inward; images of Belle; his hand palmed over his groin... over that cumbersome thing, trapped in uncompromising leather. His cock had been mostly quiet, fairly unobtrusive, for so long, he wasn't sure if this waking was welcome or merely a nuisance. For a number of years he'd had to tend to it very little, only running water through it as nature demanded. In general, he'd ignored his body altogether. He dressed it; it got him around... But he lived in his head. In magic, books, study and power.

As the night before, when he'd journeyed with the owl, he had a sensation that he, his spirit, maybe... some true _himself_... had been away. Busy with other things. Now, abruptly, he was here. He was anchored in his body, and, having become so, it was much more difficult to feel the separation of selves. It no longer felt like there was a _true himself_ , and a separate, more dense matter of flesh and bone. The things that were happening to his body were happening to him. He was deeply affected... The line between was obscured, or expired.

As such, his cock had to be let out. It _hurt_ , for fuck's sake. It was not at the best angle for it's current rush of blood, quite notably away from his brain, and it dug painfully into his thigh. His _balls_ ached, a heavy, ungodly- _horny_ feeling; a sensation that was bothersome about his pelvic floor, making him self-aware in a clumsy, embarrassing way... he was aware even of his anus, to which he'd paid even less attention than to his cock. All of these lower parts had become instruments of elimination, only; and it seemed they were now staging an uprising.

The buttons of his breeches were difficult, strained as they were. He managed them, body stiff, and finally freed the pulsing thing attached to him. It would probably prefer to _detach_ , he thought... It probably hated him for all of his bodily neglect and unmanly fearfulness about Belle. If it could, it would depart from him, post haste, and go directly to Belle.... like that bloody dildo.

Freed, it sprang up, taut against his belly, and then fell forward, heavy with it's own, newfound weight. It was flushed, cast in the Dark One's colors, yet lighter; like the palms of his hands, the bottoms of his feet, the insides of his lips; more human looking than the rest of him. It's veins were prominent; the flare at it's mushroomed head was wide, ridged and very ruddy. In spite of himself, Rumpelstiltskin was a little impressed. Since the Curse, he didn't care to look at himself, (and, in truth, he hadn't much cared to even before the Curse), but _this_ , nevertheless, was something to see.

This large appendage on a small man. He stared down at it's heavy, bobbing motion, imagining Belle looking at it. Would she like it? Would she _want_ it? A shiver raced through him on spider legs, travelling to unspeakable places. He felt it in his fingers and toes, tingling at the small of his back, the underside of his buttocks.... he groaned aloud. He closed his eyes with the intensity of feeling, and took his cock in hand. The heat of it surprised him. Hot blood. His thumb stroked over the head, spreading slickness that had formed, like a bead of dew, at the tip.

And then he was overtaken. He gave in, surrendered. He pushed his breeches down to his knees, freeing his weighty balls; he found both tunic and waistcoat were in his way, obstructing him, and were suddenly too hot, besides. He magiced them both away with a wave of his hand. He couldn't think or reason, or consider the silly state of himself; in boots and breeches only, from the knees down. Behind his closed eyes, his mind was a blur of images of Belle, real and imagined. Even those images wholly imagined _felt_ real. His left hand moved from pressing over his pounding heart to his face, the heel of his hand at his open mouth, fingers over his eyes. His right hand stroked and pumped, faster and faster, his cock slick with his own arousal.

It wasn't thought, exactly, that happened in his head. It was more like his mind, with stunning rapidity, was producing a series of pictures. The left side of Belle's bottom lip, so full and rosy, captured by her white teeth when she was uncertain, or lost in thought. His hand on her booted foot, his body almost laying between her legs in the library, the way her eyes had flickered over him. Her bared breast, oh god...

His hand moved faster, teeth finding purchase on the heel of his other hand. The feeling in his body, the clenched, climbing feeling was nearly unbearable. His hips, seemingly of their own volition, made a subtle thrust, fucking his hand. _I want to fuck you_ , he told Belle in his head, and felt a squeeze, a contraction, low in his pelvis that shot sensation all over his body. His chest, his abdomen was hollow with wanting.

The images became completely the servants of imagination. Belle's naked body, a thatch of dark hair at the apex of creamy, milky thighs. He imagined her story, but his mind re-told it with grown women rather than little girls. He wanted full, bouncing, hard-nippled breasts, the rich curve of hips, motion and jiggling and _wet... wet... wet_. He imagined Belle, as flushed and overcome as himself, her legs open, the other woman scissored against her, pussy to wet, hot pussy... the greed of their grinding hips... Then his own form was in the picture; the anonymous, faceless woman was gone. Belle's legs were open, wide open for him. So wet, so pink, red at her core, hot. He was sliding his cock into her, feeling her warm, wet squeeze...

With a ragged, breathy cry, Rumpelstiltskin came. It was so hard... it spurted from his body in an arc, as if pent up for a lifetime. He felt as if everything inside of himself squeezed, contracted at a fever pitch; a high, cricket-whine that _must_ be his nervous system; and then it released, flooded, opened.... white light burst into radiant being behind his eyes, within his skull, and for moments after seemed to seep into his body.

Staggering, impeded by his breeches, he made his way to his narrow bed and collapsed. His hand still made soft motions on his cock, fondled his balls, milking little shocks of pleasure. He was so overwhelmed, sensation such a powerful thing, he couldn't open his eyes.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was so still and quiet. And cold. Snow might have been falling in his bedroom; soft, silent feathers of it, for the hush and chill that followed the cacophony of noise in his head. The heat and explosion of his body.

Lazily, he snapped the fingers of his right hand. It was a weak snap, and lacked intent. He did it again, conjuring a bone-jarring, knuckle-shift and full-on intention, and all was set aright in his room. He was once more fully dressed, now wrapped in a fur-lined, richly brocaded cloak against the cold. He'd tidied up the mess he'd made, (... that ridiculous, astounding fountain of come... no fledgling egg clinging to a uterine wall would have stood a chance), and sighed, turning to his side and curling up within the cloak, like a child.

It was a lot to take in. Even for one such as he, who had taken the Dark One's Curse upon himself..... Whose sight was long and many layered. And it wasn't as if he was completely lacking in experience with women. (Cora, Regina's mother, had shown him some surprising things.... her curious, exploring fingers and _that mouth_....). But Belle created conflict in his thoughts and feelings, and she distracted him when he had work to do. He should be working now, but instead he'd conducted a physical experiment with his body. Heat and energy had built to such intensity, he'd needed only naked skin and touch. And then... all of that energy had been... what? Simply cast off? Exploded into nothingness? It must have transformed into _something_ , having left his body cold and sleepy in it's absence. It seemed logical to think a magical transformation, or transference had taken place; that the dissipated energy _fed_ magic. But Rumpelstiltskin, if anything, felt more weak. It was as though he took magical vitality and simply tossed it away, salt over the shoulder. Scraps for the faeries. It wouldn't do.

He needed to get a grip, (but not in _that_ way), to come fully back to himself, to his many agendas. He would spin for a time, he decided. Calm himself, and then work in his tower room, where spells and magic did as they mathematically _should_ ; collecting and increasing in power with gathered energy. Not simply whizzing about and... winking out of existence? Lost, for lack of focus or purpose?

Should he have brought Belle here, he wondered? Could he bear for her to leave? She was, no doubt, in the library. The letter B beckoned. B, for breasts. He hoped she found information that pleased her, as her inquisitiveness pleased him. Though occasionally irksome.

How did she know to come to his tower room when he was with the owl? Prodded by _himself_ , he had guessed... but it was only a guess. He had been astounded to come back to himself and to see her, leaning out of the window and into the icy night.... in her nightgown and shawl. Tendrils of hair, lifting, gorgon-like, about her face.

Afraid _for_ him.

He shouldn't have stayed with her, he decided. He shouldn't have slept in her bed... He _really_ shouldn't have given into the pressure of his cock, the ache beneath his sternum, and taken off boots, trousers and waistcoat; all to get more comfortable, more cozy under her covers. The bedclothes warm, and smelling of her.

And now he had this tale of hers, and it weighed on him. It made his body difficult to govern. Yes, he made her tell it... But he wouldn't have if he hadn't shared her bed. Kissed her hand.

Pinched her nipple; ogled her breast. (Titty)

It wasn't lost on Rumpelstiltskin that Belle was _letting_ him take these liberties... What did that mean? He'd let himself be touched, foolish Imp, when she'd said she liked him. She seemed such a genuine sort, not manipulative.

Not manipulative? No such animal.

Snarling a bit, Rumpelstiltskin rose from his bed, trying not to think on his earlier loss of control, (utter, sheer madness); the embarrassing, animal glut of it, as pathetic as a mongrel dog, humping the odd leg. He tried not to think on any lingering elements of magic that might have witnessed such a display.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later, he had to wonder, _was_ it witnessed? ( _Horrors_ ). Or, perhaps, sensed. Maybe it was the energy that was sensed; the tremendous build and explosion of it, followed by a vacuum of _nothing._ Like nature, magic abhorred a vacuum. One could try to sleep through it, the void; but dreams came calling.

At any rate, Regina came calling, largely regarded as his evil twin these days, though so very many years his junior. (Wasn't everyone?) And, it went without saying, much prettier. After her time as his pupil, she was long gone... off on her own quest of revenge, fueled by it, like nothing else can fuel an empty husk. As it should be. He hadn't seen her to speak to her in nearly a year. Was it coincidence that she arrived now, in his moment of weakness? Travelling in her ebony carriage of evil portent; carriage and solid, black, enormous horses decked out in black plumes and blood red ribbon, glossy and lurid....

He rather liked it.

When he'd met her, answering her call and yet already aware of her, she'd been a fulsome, wholesome looking girl... Like Belle, but with a hint of the exotic. No more. She modeled herself a Queen of Hell, Queen of the Dead, and her face had hollowed with. Her skin had paled, her cheekbones stark... and that little scar on her upper lip was less roguish than in her youth, and more malevolent, wicked. Her lip curled with it, suggestive. She always wore black... She accented with color, according to mood or statement, but black was her way. It suited her dark hair and eyes; it was a stark contrast to her pale skin; and it warned her subjects: Death.

What it said to Rumpelstiltskin was _magic_. It was a strong symbol of magic, unformed; that place to which owls and crows may go, and in which a proper practitioner may mold magic like clay. She asked nothing of deity; Like him, she would always take care of matters, herself.

She came with regal grace into his sitting room, where he sat, spinning at the wheel. Watching the wheel, moving with it, he'd seen her coming. He'd felt her on the road, sloe-black movement over winding, stark and red clay. He would have forewarned Belle, but he didn't want to break concentration. Why was she coming, his student of old? He had far reaching plans for her, but had no need of her at the moment.

To spare Belle, he magiced an elaborate tea on the sideboard. Cabinets emptied of wealth, and the wealth spread itself over the board, on a table runner of damask, deepest berry-red. Regina would like that. Strong tea, decanters of brandy and wine, cakes- sweet and savory. Silver gleamed, crystal sparkled; the room began to twinkle with the flickering lights of many candles, even in the crystal chandelier above. Regina's tastes had grown more stark, he knew, but the display would still impress her. And she would know that she was expected.

Coming before him, Regina was in all black, leather and lace; her only accents were jewels of ruby and garnet, and lips the color of merlot. It befit a Queen of the Dead, the garnets a nod to the jewel-like seed of the pomegranate. Belle was behind her, looking sweet, surprisingly homespun and not a little put out. Her eyes took in the tea, the new lavishness of the room, and her tension eased a little.

"Rumpel!" Regina said, with what sounded like genuine warmth. _That_ brought such a wide-eyed look from Belle, Rumpelstiltskin couldn't breathe for a moment. Did the familiarity hurt her?

He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest, lifting his chin as he eyed Regina. "Your Majesty." he said, with a light, mocking tone.

Belle gasped, and said, "I'm so sorry, I didn't realize. May I get you some refreshment?"

Regina gave her a sly but dismissive look, and sauntered to the sideboard like a self-assured ghoul. "Not to worry. I can manage it myself, dear." she smiled, and Rumpelstiltskin was impressed. No matter what, Regina's voice was always full of melting warmth, her tone one of reassurance, encouragement. Her smile carried the same warmth. These things were learned, not part of her personality when he met her... It was masterful, the way she put people at ease in spite of her very self, and then made them her puppets.

He began to rethink Belle's potential for being manipulative. Nothing, nothing could compare to the magic, manipulation and sheer _plot_ that people like he and Regina could cook up. Feeling suddenly quite protective of Belle, he reached his arm out towards her, hand open in a subtle beckoning. To his surprise and delight, she came directly to him. They simply had not arrived at such foregone conclusions as _Come to my side, darling_ , but she did.... Perhaps ill at ease over Regina.

Perhaps possessive over him.

Whatever prompted her, she came to his side, even leaning into him, placing her hand on his opposite shoulder as his arm went around her waist; his hand, boldly, on her belly. Sipping brandy, Regina said, "Oh my... How darling. I hadn't realized I was intruding on sweethearts, Rumpel. I do apologize."

He felt a shift in Belle, as if she would correct Regina's assumption. Rumpelstiltskin spoke before she could... Regina must understand that Belle was under his protection.

"Think nothing of it." he sing-songed, holding Belle even more snugly. "We've made no announcements, you couldn't know, dearie." A snub, in fact. Regina used mirrors and spies to know _everything_... But she would _never_ know of his life in the Dark Castle.

Her smile faltered only a little. "Rumpel, I wonder if you've heard of the treason of my step-daughter, Snow." she said.

"Oh, this again." Rumpelstiltskin sighed. Belle's hand came to rest over his , against her firm abdomen. She was playing along, he realized happily. It would look so cozy and quaint. He was also pleased to know that Regina had not lost sight of her absurd vendetta, but he remained cavalier. "Are you still on that?" He played with Belle's fingers.

 _I have better things to do_ , his body said to Regina. And... maybe it was true. But, unlike Belle, he _was_ manipulative. In the extreme. He let the implied couple-hood wash over Regina, the sweetness and surprise of it, the physicality of it, and he felt it burn her. It energized her in exactly the way he wished. Her mind, at times so open to him, continued to thrash her dead horse. Even he, even Rumpelstiltskin can have true love. _Snow White killed mine, and I'll never know happiness again._

She really believed it, the Queen did; with all of her being. She believed in her mother as well, which is why she rather missed the obvious. "Of course I'm still 'on that', Rumpel, dear. I will not be able to rest until she's brought to justice."

"Ah, justice."

"Yes. Indeed. She's now taken to common thievery, living with bandits and _dwarfs._ She speaks out against me, telling lies. The common people believe her. They burn my effigy. Something must be done."

She said it with her endless supply of warmth, rather than passion or fury, smiling for Belle's sake. She managed to convey her own distress, while also implying that she was concerned over her misguided step-daughter, that she was trying to understand, and that she wished to protect her people. It was stunning; Rumpelstiltskin wanted to applaud.

"They'll always side with her, you know," he sang. "You frighten them... they'll never love you." He said it as an admonishment, waggling his finger at her. Enjoying how it stoked her fire... she was so easy. He felt Belle looking down at him... What must she think?

"May we speak in private?" Regina asked sweetly, an apologetic smile to Belle. _You understand, dear._

Rumpelstiltskin was loathe to let her go, but Belle said, "Of course, Your Majesty." She was all brisk business and politeness; no doubt she'd been asked to leave many a war-room, or even court, in her younger days. She detached herself, but he held her hand. Uncertain as to what degree it was for Regina or for himself, he kissed the tips of her fingers before she departed. She may have been an accomplice to his ruse, but she blushed prettily at that. Rumpelstiltskin smiled at her.

When she was gone, Regina said, "When did you start making eyes at the help?"

"She's not the help, dearie. She's nobility. She came to live with me in a deal to assist her kingdom with marauding ogres." As if you didn't know.

"Oh yes," Regina said, strolling to the table and leaning against it. "I heard about that. So this is little, Belle, then."

"Not so little." He tried and succeeded in making it sound dirty. It wasn't difficult, thinking on her story.

Regina wrinkled her nose. "And she's come to care for you, it seems. I've heard that can happen in certain situations of abduction.... though I'd not seen it for myself."

"Whatever do you mean, dearie?" _Bitch_.

"Oh, you know," Regina remained warm. "You've heard, I'm certain. A captor who seems kind, especially in contrast to a family, a parent, who has willingly given up a child.... A girl who is young and... inexperienced. In a blossoming stage. An isolated situation, where two people must rely on one another..."

Rumpelstiltskin only stared at her, willing his face into stone; into some sort of non-reaction. She had successfully planted a seed of doubt within him, the bitch, exactly as she'd meant to. He knew what she was doing; she _knew_ he knew; and it still bloody worked. After a moment he said, "Well, you know I'm unkind, dearie. " He counted off adjectives on his fingers. "An ugly, unkind, tricky, demanding right _bastard_. Sometimes women just fall for me, in spite of it all. What can I say? But more to the point, dearie, what have _you_ to say? To what do I owe the pleasure of this long overdue visit?"

　

 


	8. Belle

_Lord, but I am a simple soul_ , Belle thought; embarrassed, more or less, to exist.

She knew she was intelligent, imaginative. She'd followed the goings-on of her father's kingdom and had always performed well in her lessons. But there was more... Maybe Rumpelstiltskin would teach her magic. _Witchery_. She liked the word. But even if he did, and even if she learned, there was a sort of cleverness, intelligence and strategy she would never possess.

As if it wasn't enough to be always three or more steps behind Rumpelstiltskin.... which she'd come to accept, as he was the Dark One, after all... Now there was Regina. Belle had leaned into Rumpelstiltskin, happy to do it in their new intimacy; relieved, even, after her sordid, little tale. But, in fact, her knees had been weak. Just meeting Regina at the door had taxed her, much less being in a room with the two of them.

No one said what they really meant... everyone was sizing everyone else up, deciding what was _really_ being said. Each was trying to see ahead, to out maneuver in the here and now, but also in the future, as in chess. It exhausted Belle, who had not had to go to such social extremes on a regular basis. Yes, she had to learn to read people, to read between the lines. To sniff out truth. But the plotting, the planning... the sniffing out of the truth of things which had not yet come to pass....

She felt a dullard.

She crossed her bedroom floor and stared out the window. She liked to look at birds. That's who she was. Rumpel (why did Regina _call_ him that??) had summed her up: Belle, who likes books and birds and bees. Yes, and other things besides, but that was pretty much it. She had no real ambition, she realized. Her adventures took place in her head, her body curled comfortably in a chair, her eyes busy in a book.

Belle, who likes birds.

She thought she was looking down at a leaf-strewn ground; in the distance, bare bones of leafless trees stretched up into the almost snowy, mother-of-pearl sky. But no... subtle movement made her realize she was looking at mourning doves. First one... then, she realized.... there are dozens. Clustered together on the ground, their shapes and colors mimicking the buff and bone of the fallen leaves. The ground was moving. It made a small, lightness in her chest, because - after all - she loved birds. Anyone could tell you that.

She felt, sometimes, that she could make birds appear. She probably wouldn't say that to Rumpelstiltskin. In truth, she supposed they were there all along, like the doves, but at times it still felt like she'd made it happen. Sometimes she stared at a branch, wondering... where are they? Then a movement would catch her peripheral vision, and the play of sun, shadow and leaf; the criss-cross of branches would resolve into a little bird. As she watched it, catbird, cardinal, chickadee... suddenly the tree would be full of birds. All kinds. A nuthatch or a downy woodpecker at the trunk, the others all throughout, and even on the ground. Busy, busy, busy.

Or she would stare at the sky, the treetops that swayed and whispered, lost in a feeling. And then a hawk, unseen where it perched, would take flight... sunlight on it's belly making it appear to sparkle, white, as it wheeled, a flash in the sky.

She probably didn't make them appear. But did they answer a call? Was it rudimentary witchery?

"Ruminating again, dearie?"

Belle jumped a bit, then glanced back. Rumpelstiltskin was framed in her door. Dapper in his trim waistcoat. Elegant goblin.

"Moo." she said, which earned her a happy, finger-jiggling giggle. Smiling, she turned back to the window. She was too high up to hear the cooing of the mourning doves.... it was too cold to open the window. "Is she gone?" she asked.

She jumped again. Rumpelstiltskin was right behind her, his hands coming to encircle her waist. It was eerie when he moved like that, so soundless. Belle tried to pretend that his hands on her was a normal thing... a casual touch between them. Although, so far, no touch between them had been casual. It stirred her, she could barely breathe.

"She is, indeed, gone, dearie. Gone, gone, gone..."

"What did she want, that was so private?" Well, that was rude, Belle thought. Just blurt out questions that are none of your business. But his hands were moving up and down her arms, his breath very near her ear, warm on her neck. The rudeness didn't seem to bother him, and she couldn't think enough to monitor her manners. She allowed her body to lean back against him, her blood warming to hear his breath come up short... and then the purr that followed.

"Mm," he said. Then, seeming to gather himself, he said, "Nothing really. She went on about Snow White, same old bitching. She was likely here to get a look at you, dearie."

"Me?"

"Aye. In her private conversation she made mention of unfortunate girls who become sympathetic to their captors. A syndrome, it's said. Have you become sympathetic to me, dearie?"

His hands moved over her belly, at her waist, and then low. Belle's eye's closed; her lips parted as she tried to make her breathing shallow, inaudible. Though surely he could hear her heart.

"I... don't know, Rumpel. I liked you nearly from the start. Since I entered, willingly, into a deal with you, I guess I never saw you as my captor. Not truly."

"Oh, but I am, dearie. I don't plan to ever let you go. Forever, yes?"

The tips of his fingers pressed hard against her lower belly, and, unable to help it, Belle gasped, her hips reflexively pressing back against him. His mouth was at her neck, frankly kissing her; one of his hands moved up to grasp her breast.

"Yes?" he whispered again, urgent. His hips moved, rocked to her backside.

"Yes!" Belle whispered back. Her head lolled back on his shoulder, and she couldn't stop the way she writhed against him... hips back, buttocks pressed to his groin; her ribcage, her breasts pushed outward, filling his hands, wanting his touch. She moaned, drowning in a feeling that was both pleasure and fear, feeling his mouth work up to her jaw. Then she turned, meeting his mouth with hers, her arms around his neck.

"Belle," he whispered, breath hot against her mouth, sharing breath.

So this is what books, songs tried to describe... drowning in another, _drinking_ from another. This was what is was to lose yourself... almost a willful death. Her eyes felt so heavy... she wanted to look at him, to take a moment and breathe, to process what was happening. But her eyes only wanted to close, dilated pupils hot and making her vision blurry. She could only hang onto Rumpelstiltskin, every part of her being heavy with want. His mouth fed on hers, her lips so sensitive she moaned and gasped with each brush of his lips, each suckle and searching press. When the tip of his tongue touched hers, further parting her lips, Belle pressed close, her hands moving into his hair, her back arching, feeling his hands come to her hips. Her body was so alive, so fevered with need... her sex _ached_ , stealing her breath with the idea of what was possible. What could happen.

Suddenly, Rumpelstiltskin moved back a step, his hands holding her upper arms. Belle's eyes opened; she stumbled a bit in her forward lean. He looked spooked, staring at the ground, holding her at arms length.

"Rumpel", Belle could barely speak. "What is it?"

He gave a rapid little shake of his head. His hands dropped to his sides, and he looked up at her, briefly.

"I'm sorry." he said, sounding not at all like himself.

Sorry he kissed her? Sorry he stopped?

"Why?"

"I got confused." he waggled his fingers around his head. "Our little game... for the Queen. I thought I could come in here and... I was acting like you were mine, dearie."

".... But.... I said _yes_ , Please, Rumpel...."

He shook his head again, backing up another step. Belle thought she might burst into tears, so strong was her longing. "Do you not want me?" she asked, her voice small.

He looked at her fully, then. "Oh. I want you, Belle."

"I want _you_." she breathed.

"But you see," he was more himself now, smiling and posturing, "That's the puzzler. The conundrum. Even a bit of a cluster fuck. _Why_ , dearie? You've longed, all of your life, for a greenish goblin to negotiate you into his castle? Surely you would have preferred your man, Gaston."

Need, desperation stoking her impatience, thus her temper, Belle stomped her foot.

"Er..." Rumpelstiltskin said.

"No! I don't want _Gaston_! I never did. I never wanted anyone before you, Rumpel.... I never had the chance to want anyone, because they all thought I was odd and I thought they were dull. You're the only man.... very nearly the only _person_ to actually _talk_ to me. And _listen_. I've never been able to come to know anyone else, beyond their habits, favorite foods, whatever. No one shares thoughts... certainly they don't listen to mine. _Oh, you know how Belle is..._ I couldn't care less if Gaston looked at my breasts; it was just boorish. It made me roll my eyes... I didn't feel it. But when you do those things, Rumple, I _feel_ it. It makes me blush. It makes me curious about you. My skin aches when you're near, wanting to be touched."

Oh, now she was embarrassed. When her temper flared up, it was typically burned out rather quickly, often undone by her own logic. She'd lost her anger only a short way into her eruption, although remembering how her thoughts and ideas had been routinely ignored or dismissed fueled her irritation.

Now she blushed so that it hurt; she put her cold fingers to her face to try and cool down. With a sharp intake of breath, she turned towards the window and opened it, welcoming the cold rush of air.

When she was little and as embarrassed as this, she used to throw her skirt over her head, which some saw as counterproductive. She considered doing it, now.

Behind her, Rumpelstiltskin cleared his throat in an awkward way. He said, "You could've just said you find me unconventionally handsome. That green is your favorite color."

Belle blurted a laugh that was part sob, still staring at a world that was past autumn, but not yet banked in snow.

"It is, actually." she said. "I love the color, green, in nearly all shades."

"Well, then. That explains so much."

He came and stood beside her, nudging her hand with his until she held it, fingers entwining.

"This is all yours, you know." he said, his arm sweeping to encompass the castle and it's lands.

Typical, Belle thought. He would withhold himself from her in fear, but give her a magic castle.

"It's yours, Rumpel. There's land in my kingdom that belongs to me. Although, I guess once the Queen spreads word of us, that will change."

"Really?" Rumpelstiltskin looked surprisingly appalled. "Your father is fine with sending you here, _forever_ ; but will disinherit you if you find a partner in me?"

Belle nodded, sad to acknowledge the hypocrisy. That her happiness would not be tolerated under such circumstances. "I expect it would be argued that my holdings would eventually fall to you, were you my betrothed. Heaven forfend if there was a child. They would fear the Dark One setting up an estate within the kingdom. Becoming the ruler of the kingdom."

"These are people you love, dearie?"

Belle just gave a look, feeling rather wrung out. Yes, she did, but it was complex. It wasn't an easy love, even before ogres and Runpelstiltskin. She was just so unlike everyone else. Mature, her father said; and sometimes, in the same breath, immature.

"You know, in a strange way, it was a welcome thing to me when you proposed your deal. It gave me a chance... to just be myself, I suppose. To find out what that means." With a sheepish look she added, "It was a way to _not_ marry Gaston, and yet still save the kingdom... so I came out looking like the good guy." Rumpelstiltskin gave a little snicker, bumping his shoulder to hers. "It took me out of what seemed a very narrow, purposeless path. Although I guess I still lack purpose."

Rumpelstiltskin squeezed her hand, and said, "No love. You've purpose enough, here. Look at the state of the place... Look at the state of _meself_! You've got your work cut out for you. And this place _does_ belong to you, dearie. With the exception of a few relics, it's all yours... You're the mistress, here." Looking at her, he said, "The place needs a woman's touch."

Belle smiled, and then he added, "No doilies."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He stayed for a time in her room, eventually closing the windows when her cheeks calmed. Belle didn't quite know what to make of any of it. She sat in the comfortable chair he'd given her, near the fireplace, standing lamp just behind for reading. She nudged off her slippers, tucking her feet beneath her. She still felt as if blood pooled hotly in irksome places; there was an almost irritating pulsing at her sex. That sensitive little _nub_ , that _bud_ , she thought... that she'd discovered when her fingers touched between her legs; that was the culprit. It was sending out the throbbing message, making her want to rock her hips where she sat. Which wouldn't do. She pressed her thighs together, trying to ease the ache of it, and felt the uncomfortable, alarming feeling of wetness at the tops of her thighs. It had been happening so much, of late, leaving her feeling vulnerable and peculiar. Was it normal? Who could she ask?

It had happened even when Regina visited, almost a gush when Rumpelstiltskin's arm had embraced her, his hand on her belly. That was very strange, indeed. Could anyone tell? Did people just go about in this state, their clothes hiding the subversive action of their bodies, their most private parts?

She was in a right state. It was making her fussy..... If it wasn't so embarrassing, she'd aim her fussiness at Rumpelstiltskin. What on earth did he mean, getting her so worked up? Whipping her into a frenzy and then pulling back, as if he might break her...

Aware of her own sex, she couldn't help but wonder about his. How she'd longed to feel it, evidence of his lust, his desire for her, when she'd pressed back against him. But she was always wrapped in layers, her skirts and shifts muffling her lower body to the world.... even when they'd shared the bed, she's been wrapped in the thick fur.

Was he tormented by his body? She rather hoped he was, but - if so - he gave no sign of it. He seemed composed.... so tidy and neat, compact thing that he was. Belle eyed the bulge at his crotch, wondering. What manner of thing was in there, creating that bulge? How did the parts all work? She knew the basics from books, but she couldn't really imagine what it would feel like... What would a man's member look like, when it wasn't a soft, floppy thing?

She'd seen nude statues of men; very graceful, lovely relics, with rippling sweeps of muscle and even the supple-looking detail of veins, softly parted lips, fingernails. For all of the beauty of these sculptures, the genitalia had not left a huge impression on Belle. In fact, in her recollection, they all seemed to sport little, harmless looking members.... say, thumb-sized; featureless thingies, resting on a sack that also seemed on the small side, (bird-egg balls, one cousin said), and yet larger than the winkies. Like little boys.

She hadn't previously given it much thought, but now she wondered how a little, innocent thing like that could ever ease her ache...? She felt so _open_ , dilated, somehow, and so wet. It shamed her to think of a thumb-sized creature, gamely trying to find purchase in her needy, pumping sex.

Rumpelstiltskin's bulge, she thought with optimism, at least seemed to hint at more promise than that. It appeared to have some heft to it. Was it a trick of the leather? (Was it green?)

She watched him wander her room, picking up books, pretending to look at them, setting them down. More than once he strolled to her window, staring out with his hands clasped behind his back. He was loitering, she thought. She welcomed his loitering, his presence in the privacy of her room. She felt as though she waited with baited breath, her fingertips suffering a strain of wanting to touch him.

She couldn't fully answer his question of Why? Why would she want a goblin, an Imp? The Dark One. Everything she said was true, but it answered why she liked him... why she enjoyed his company, preferred it, in fact, to others. He intrigued her.

But why did she _want_ him, so? She couldn't answer it, herself... it had just come over her. Every so often, just testing - she supposed - she tried to make herself repelled. Repulsed. She tried to see him as others did, focusing on the hue of his skin, the appearance of it's rough texture, his blackened nails and darkened teeth. Nothing really worked.... She could see those things; she _did_ see those things. It was all a part of who he was to her, his overall look, and Belle did not find herself wishing otherwise. She didn't imagine a different, human face, or tune out his obscene giggles or occasional rages. It seemed she wanted all of it.

She saw these things, watching him in her room; the things that so disturbed others, and they only made her shiver with want. It was Rumpelstiltskin. Sometimes when she saw his darker skin against her own, pale skin, she thought she would swoon. His teeth had been worrisome only in that she wondered about his breath, but now she'd kissed him.

Tasted him. (It was as if a wave in the ocean crested in her body as she had the thought. How were these tidal feeling occurring?) It rocked her so that she could not contain the roll of her hips, her hands gripping the arm of the chair. Her eyes closed and she bit her lip, trying to contain the moan that formed in her throat. . Blood made a stinging in her chest, a yearning at her lips, and it hardened her nipples to painful, hot spokes. The thought of Rumpelstiltskin's mouth, open, wet, seeking her breast, made the cresting wave happen all over again. With effort, she kept her breathing shallow and more or less controlled, though her cheeks, again, were burning. She opened her eyes to see that he still stood at the window, his back to her. But, like watching a cat turn it's ear back, she saw that he was aware of her. His head made a subtle inclination, his face almost visible to her in profile. His sensuous, bottom lip....

She'd tasted him, scented him, and it had been the Rumpelstiltskin she'd come to know... tobacco, herbs, maybe strong drink... only everything was hot, molten. She'd felt afire, as though her tongue could not get enough of his. She'd wanted to taste his skin... She'd wanted to _scale_ him, for heaven's sake, wrapping arms and legs about him, rubbing her sex against him until she found what she needed.

He walked to the side of her bed, sitting near the foot, and studied her. What had these waves of feeling _done_ to her, Belle wondered. How did she look? That moment, so brief, of unbridled passion, followed by these lengthening, quiet moments, where she simply watched him; unable to look away from the bones of his hands, the slim, firmness of his hips and thighs, the mystery of the bulge in his trousers, and what could only be called the _cute_ rounding of his bum... It must all be taking a toll on her expression.

"I guess it's all out in the open, dearie." he said.

Some things were. Some things were hidden in leather.

"The kiss?" Belle asked. Soon, she would simply faint. It was like hunger... Her insides were hollowed.

"Aye, love. The kiss. The want. The two of us, alone in this castle, with these things known between us."

Yes. That was a heady handful. Belle whispered, "Yes."

"Do you want release from our contract?"

Her mouth dropped open, surprised and perhaps hurt. " _What_?"

Rumpelstiltskin looked down, then back up at her. "I risk appearing weak if I release you, but I can't pretend not to care for you, Belle. If I release you, now, you can return to your land, your reputation unsullied by courtship with me. I promise your kingdom will remain under my protection."

"But..."

"We'll present you as the special girl... the almost magic girl... with unique gifts that served to soothe the Dark One. A bee charmer, a lion tamer... that sort of thing. Pure, heroic; no kissing. Strength of character."

Belle was aghast. At Rumpelstiltskin, for suggesting it. At herself, for she could not bear the thought of leaving him, even to go home to her family. Firmly, she said, "No."

"No?" he seemed perplexed. "Belle, you've overcome the Dark One. Make a new deal... Do you not know the stength of your advantage?"

Stubborn, she pressed her lips together, feeling hot tears well up in her eyes. Then Rumpelstiltskin was crouched before her, his hands holding her face, thumbs soothing away spilled tears.

"Don't cry, love." he said, a croak in his voice, as if his body threatened tears as well. "I only want what's best for you."

"You are. " Belle managed. "You are what's best for me. You said _forever_."

Tilting his head, those _eyes_ regarding her with such curiosity, he said, "No matter what you feel for me, dearie, you must know that's not true. You must realize that the heart of my power is evil. Surely you can see that. Surely you can see how I use people... that I'm just like Regina, but so much worse. I'll never be what's best for you."

Could she see it? Belle wasn't sure. She wanted to be able to discern the truth, but it seemed she was only able to catch glimpses of what he was telling her. She didn't exactly believe him to be _good_ , although she believed he was good to her. But evil?

Shaking her head, moving to kiss his palm, she said, "I won't go."

　


	9. Witchcraft

There was a lot of being still and _listening_. It was not at all what Belle had imagined. Where were the spells? The magic words of power? _Alakazam!_ Would there be broom riding?

In time, Rumpelstiltskin told her, though he was non-specific as to the broom.

She had become so used to his showy ways... Magic had personality, _his_ magic had both color and scent. (Honeyed, though stormy. Alyssum. It had stayed on her hands and face for hours after The Kiss.) She was hoping for her own showmanship.... a twirling of skirts, perhaps. A bit of an arabesque, and _poof!_ She would pull something from the nothing realm he spoke of, and he would be pleased. She had not forgotten that he'd said he once admired the Queen's mother. (And the Queen?)

For the moment, if such magic was to be her stomping ground, it seemed very far away. Rumpelstiltskin had her sitting still, out in the courtyard, for crying out loud. Still, the snow wouldn't come; stubborn, like magic. But it was bitter cold. She and Rumpelstiltskin were both wrapped in fur-lined cloaks, hoods up, hands gloved and bodies bundled. He even had a grey, wool scarf wrapped from beneath the cloak to the bridge of his nose. It was a strange sight, those amber, predator eyes peering out at her from all of that cowled shadow. He looked so... rustic. It was interesting to Belle, after so long seeing him as dapper; elegant.

There were benches of stone scattered about the courtyard, and flagstones laid out on the ground, allowing for a pattern of herb and shrubbery between the stones. It was all long neglected, and in the cold moons everything was the brown, black and bone of winter. Creepers of thyme and various, stray mosses had been stopped in their tracks, withered on stone.

The walls of the courtyard blocked some of the wind, but still... it came howling. It swooped down and rollicked about, a live, devilish thing. It had voices, and brought with it the rattle and scuttle of dry leaves; taking them from branches, scooping them up from bare earth. The sycamore leaves were bigger than Rumpelstiltskin's hand, and seemed like wandering crabs, clacking about the courtyard, wondering what became of the sea.

"Focus, you bloody cow."

He said it amiably enough. Belle didn't take offense.

It turned out that this sort of focus was incredibly _hard_. She needed something to focus on. A book, a lesson, a task... She was meant to empty her mind; if anything, focusing on basic things like keeping warm in the cold; the evenness of her breath. She did it a little with Rumpelstiltskin's guidance... She'd more or less _imagined_ her body's temperature rising, pretending her hands and feet were buried in hot, hot sand; the sun blazing down on her at a sparkling, blue seaside; sweat beginning to trickle down between her breasts. (That last detail supplied with some relish by Rumpelstiltskin.)

It worked... her temperature had risen, much to her surprise. But then... perhaps the focused imagining led her to a lesser sort of focus. The sycamore leaves converting to crabs from her blue ocean... she was easily distracted. Now she shivered within her cloak, her temperature having dropped abruptly. Her teeth wanted to chatter, a tremble in her jaw.

"I can't, anymore." she said. "I've lost the thread. The will."

"You would prefer to make yourself still by the roaring fire, dearie?"

"Well.... yes."

He chuckled. He lacked sing-song in the steady wind, muffled beneath the scarf. He looked serious.

"Try again. The point is not necessarily to be warm... that's just incentive. The point is quiet, on the inside. Quiet, so that your thoughts are still and clear. _Focus_."

Belle groaned inwardly, having come to hate that word. During these sessions, she'd come to learn that her mind was anything but quiet. It rambled all over, filled with many voices and images; and now that she was more aware of it, she could see how it would interfere with magic. So much of it was so very unproductive... little hobnobs and pixies with an endless, nonsense chatter. Or, if not always nonsense, certainly not focused.

Energy, Rumpelstiltskin told her, was everything. Both in solid reality and in the more mutable world of magic, energy was always at work. To make it work for one, as in magic, there had to be focus. Bloody focus. The energy had to be focused... like a beam of light. Thoughts were energy; a new idea for Belle.

Belle could see plainly that energy ran off from her, willy-nilly, making rivers and tributaries and creeks and far off ponds, to use one of Rumpelstiltskin's many metaphors. It was siphoned from her, a spider-webbing of streams, but the ends of the web were unraveled, and went nowhere. Lacking focus.

What was less plain was how to change it. How to have a disciplined mind. Rumpelstiltskin had her remain still and quiet for a time every morning and evening, but her thoughts ran. If he sat with her, it was easier. He directed her. With his eyes closed, he seemed aware of the motions of her mind... as the chatter began it's aimless trekking, her would bring her focus back to her breathing, or to the feel of the ground beneath her feet; or he would have her imagine a color.

On her own, she was a disaster. Her thoughts wandered, quite at large, and any focus she regained was because she imagined dirty things about Rumpelstiltskin. On these thoughts and images she could hone in quite well. (And yet, perhaps not well enough, not with proper focus, for she could not make these thoughts manifest. Rumpelstiltskin the Lover had not come to realization. Rumpelstiltskin the Teacher had taken over.)

Apparently extremes, such as hot and cold, could help with proper focus. Or maybe it was just punishment.

"Alright," Rumpelstiltskin said, standing. He held his gloved hand out her. Belle took it in relief. He continued to hold her hand as they crossed the courtyard; as they made their was to the interior of the castle. Belle thought this habit of his was sweet... she treasured it, even if so much of him was withheld. At least he hadn't made her leave.

Released her. Belle was stubbornly certain, more certain than ever; she did not want to be released.

They paused in the great hall, unwinding and unmuffling from all of the heavy outerwear, then Rumpelstiltskin gave her a sly look from the corner of his eye.

"I ought to put you over my knee."

It stopped Belle in her tracks. Good lord. Playful smile in place, he took her arm in his and walked her to the kitchen.

"Of course, you'd like it, dearie. Which somewhat defeats the purpose."

Belle blushed and asked, "Why do you want to do... that?"

He deposited her in a chair at the table, and turned to the oven. Belle rose, feeling that it was her place to hustle about the kitchen, but he held up his hands to stay her. "I'm restless." he said.

It must have been true, for he didn't use magic. He fed wood into the oven, and went about the complex dance of dampers and oxygen. As always, it fascinated Belle when he did ordinary things. She watched him in his deep squat, balanced on the balls of his feet, studying his backside. The rise of his waistcoat, the slippage of his trousers... the cursed shirt patching the two...

" _That's_ why." he said, his back to her but one forefinger raised. "Yes, you need a spanking, dearie."

Belle felt it again; the bearing down of her body, on nothing. The tide. "What's why?" she asked, her mouth dry.

The fire leapt to life, and Rumpelstiltskin rearranged here and there, encouraging it. Then he stood, closing the grate, and fetched the kettle.

"Because..... you can only focus on your pussy." he told her.

Belle's eyes widened as she fought for stillness. She was shocked he'd said the word.... more so that he applied it to her. She couldn't speak.

He smiled at her, seeming to enjoy her discomfort. Belle thought she might be a little angry... maybe he was being disrespectful... But, truly, it was hard to see, to feel past the terrible _want._ The shock.

I'll make us some tea." he told her in a soothing, tending-to-the-sick voice. "Then we'll spank you and soundly put you to bed."

Belle bit her lip and saw something blaze in his eyes. Lust? Or was he actually angry? Maybe he was tired of his self-imposed waiting. Weakly, she said, "Ha-ha."

"It's no joke, dearie. And it's long overdue." Contemplative, he added, "I believe it will make you feel better. I'm certain _I'll_ feel better. It will help with your focus. Little witchling."

Belle smiled in spite of the weird turn. It was hard to work up any fear, really. Maybe it would hurt, but she was more concerned that she would feel absurd. Whatever the case, she would be close to him... he would touch her. And he'd called her "witchling"... he must yet have hope for her.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Perhaps one of the most bizarre, or surreal parts of it was the walk to Belle's room. Rumpelstiltskin went before, up the long, dark, stairwell. He held a lit lantern, throwing shadows wildly all about, deepening the recesses of the broad, stone steps. Belle was behind, holding his extended hand, her other hand holding up her heavy skirt. They were a procession, and they were going to the site of her discipline.

It was a slow procession, and Rumpelstiltskin's mood matched it; he was quiet, somber. The giggling imp was nowhere in sight. Belle was a knot of uncertainty.

She felt a building excitement... at last, something, perhaps _untoward_ , would happen between them, the first such thing since The Kiss. But his temperament threw her off balance, and as she climbed to what was framed as her punishment, she realized she'd simply placed her trust in Rumpelstiltskin. She'd just done it, not thinking; only feeling. Of late, blind with lust. Perhaps it was misplaced.

Not only did she know little of him, truly, (for surely the Dark One kept secrets), but she also knew little of men. Generally... especially sexually. What did they want? What did Rumpelstiltskin want? Was it at all similar to her own desire?

Arriving at her room, he placed the lantern on her dresser and then led her directly to her tall, standing mirror in it's dark, wooden frame. The edges of the mirror were darkened, smoky, as if somehow singed by the wood. It shadowed the image of the two of them.

How strange we look, Belle thought. Rumpelstiltskin stood behind her, his hands at her hips, a little taller than she. Fire already blazed and hissed in her fireplace, and light and shadow played about the image of the unearthly couple.

Keeping his eyes on their reflection, he moved his mouth close to her ear, making shivers race over her scalp and down her spine. He said, "This is what others see. Do you understand?"

Belle nodded, mesmerized by the reflection. By his nearness to her, and the couple they made. With a slight hiss at her ear, he raised both hands, embracing her, holding her breasts. Belle saw her lips part.

"I don't think you really do understand, love. _Look_. A monster leers, right behind you, wanting to have his lecherous way with you. Wanting to pollute your innocent flesh with his corrupted body, his black soul. Look at the hideous, clawed, filthy hands that hold you, squeeze you, where you're vulnerable. And you, love, so prim in tour proper dress. Poor wee lamb. How they _weep_ for you."

Oh... he was angry... and lustful. Belle could barely breathe. The sight of his hands on her was nearly as stirring as the feeling. Her breath came in shallow gasps as his hands kneaded and palmed, fingers and thumbs seeking her nipples, encircling them, pinching. She saw the color in her face and even in his, demon eyes watching the reflection avidly. Her lips looked fuller, darker; parted with hurtful breath.

Yet... she did look prim. It was the dress, worn against the cold. It was dove grey, high necked and long-sleeved, a long, snaking row of silver buttons going down her back. She looked less a nobleman's daughter and more a governess, if a bit disheveled.

Her words caught on aching breath, she said, "Rumpelstiltskin... your hands aren't hideous _or_ filthy. You're not a monster... no one would cry for me if they knew how I felt."

"Indeed not." he agreed, his voice a quiet rasp. "You said yourself... you'd be turned out. Disowned. No longer recognized as one of _them_. You exit their world, your world, because you want a monster. A _demon_."

"That's not -" Belle began, but lost her way. He'd moved her long hair to fall over her left shoulder, and his nimble fingers went to work on her buttons. Belle's head fell forward, allowing him better access to the back of her neck. The buttons at the very top, where the collar was edged in pale, pink lace, were little pearls. She felt them loosened, her throat no longer constricted, before he began on the silver. Her insides trembled, her legs as well. She was really letting this happen. It was real.

"Oh, dearie dear." Rumpelstiltskin murmured.

Belle looked again in the mirror, but his eyes were on his hands, in a slow journey down her back. "This is what they all _know_ is happening." he said. "That devil in the castle, that thing, that _grotesquerie_.... he is touching her fine things. He is stripping her of her garments. He'll bare her to his coarse, greedy, _evil_ desires. He'll leave his seed in her, where it will fester and become poison."

In spite of it, Belle buckled forward a little, hands on her lower belly, where a spasm had taken her so abruptly. She moaned softly, her eyes closing. He was bitter, she knew. Bitter about the world and it's inhabitants... Bitter that she would no longer be accepted. But she felt as if he might like seeing the picture he painted....

"That was not exactly meant to be arousing, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin sounded amused, the barest hint of his playful, sing-song voice entering into the quiet.

Helpless, Belle said, "I _know_..." She did know. But his raspy voice saying _leave his seed in her_ had affected her, regardless of where he took the statement.

"So many reasons you need a spanking, naughty girl." he chided softly. "Can't keep your mind on your studies. All you can think about is _cock_ and _fucking_ and your wanton, needful pussy."

Belle moaned again, trying very hard not to; to contain it within shallow breath. His words, his _voice_ sent feelers of touch all through her. Her skin had grown hot and ached to be free of her prim dress. A little echo in the back of her mind protested, hauling out dignity, insulted at his words. That voice was so small, however.... it was the tiniest nag, a shadow of old humiliation, a relic of childhood. In the here and now, Belle agreed with him; she needed his touch so desperately, she nearly wept.

"Please Rumple," she gasped, feeling his hands on her, where her upper back, her shoulders were bare. She couldn't think to articulate after _please_.

"It's alright, love." Rumpelstiltskin said.

He pulled the dress down, watching the mirror again. Her shift was beneath, pale linen; and chemise and bloomers beneath that. He helped her arms, as weak as the rest of her, from the long, grey sleeves, and bent to ease the dress from her body. Belle placed her hand on his back, balancing as she stepped from the dress. He paused at each foot to slip off her soft, grey button up boots.

Rumpelstiltskin tossed the heavy dress aside, and then seemed to lose all composure for a moment. He fell to his knees before her and pressed his face to her belly, his arms embracing her, holding her close. Surprised, Belle moved her hands from his shoulders, into his hair. She watched him in the mirror, his oddly penitent backside, the motion of his shoulders as his hands caressed her back, gripped her hips. She stroked his hair, having longed to do so, her fingers pressing into soft waves and curls; finding his scalp and massaging, soothing.

He moaned, pressing his forehead to her abdomen. He raised his head and kissed her there, through the layers of linen. His mouth was near her navel, and Belle felt warmth, heat, radiating out from where he kissed her.

Standing, a haunted look in his eyes, he placed a chaste kiss upon her lips. It burned, and Belle burned with it... yet she shivered.

"You're beautiful." he said, as if humbled. He looked into her eyes. His fingers caressed the side of her face, touching lightly beneath her chin.

"You too." Belle whispered. She meant it, but was not surprised to see rejection of the notion in his face. It seemed to bring him back to himself, his plan. Fingers still light at her chin, he said, "Let's continue, shall we."

He once more stood behind her, and she saw now, in the mirror, that he was a bit more disheveled. Not so tidy. She was not alone in going to pieces, although it was only she who was losing the protective armor of her clothing. She felt him untie the keyhole tie at the back of her shift, making it fall open. It, too, was pulled down her body and stepped out of, and now Belle saw herself. Nearly naked. She swallowed.... The chemise was a loose, lace and embroidery embellished slip of clothing, made of the thinnest wisp of linen. The same was true of her bloomers. She could see, plainly, the shape of her breasts, the darker tone of her nipples and the dark, triangle where her thighs met. The bloomers ended at mid-thigh with a little ruffle, and her stockings began a few inches below. She kept her legs pressed closely together, both to ease her ache and to try and conceal the wetness on her drawers... the places where the material was made nearly invisible by her near-constant arousal.

Rumpelstiltskin stood behind her for some moments, hands once more on her hips, his eyes moving over her body. Belle suddenly understood what it meant when she read that someone's eyes 'blazed with lust'. It was true; his eyes _blazed_. Her own eyes, in the mirror, were dark pools.... much darker than her usual, open blue. In lust, her eyes looked like she was willfully drowning... All was water, submersion. But Rumpelstiltskin's predator eyes blazed, licking and flickering over her, as if he would eat her up.

His eyes moved to the small of her back, and Belle felt him untying the satin ribbon at the back of her bloomers. She faltered... She'd expected to be revealed breasts-first. She was mentally prepared for it, having had one breast exposed, already. She much less prepared for the very private and lesser navigated territory of bum and.... pussy, as Rumpelstiltskin called it. But down the little faerie-wisp of fabric went, clinging briefly at her inner thigh, caught by wetness. Stepping out of the bloomers, Belle was caught in the shock of her pale nakedness in the mirror, Rumpelstiltskin standing behind, fully clothed in his many golds and browns; leather, brocade and silk.

They were both breathing fast, staring. Rumpelstiltskin's lips were parted... Belle could see the rise and fall of his chest. His eyes were glued to her image in the mirror. His fingertips grazed lightly beneath her buttocks, making her goosebump. Then his voice became the sing-song Belle was familiar with, only very quiet. Very soft.

"Oh dear. Dearie, dear."

She felt a little afraid, and turned her head away from the mirror, seeking direct eye contact. He met her eyes, briefly, a faraway look in his. He moved one hand to the front of her body, and Belle felt his fingertips tap lightly against he pouting lips of her sex. She sucked in her breath, and his fingers moved up a little, petting the dark, little triangle of fur.

"Come with me, dearie." he said, ending his caress to take her hand. He met her eyes again, and led her to the bed. Directing, he arranged her so that she was bent over, her hands braced on the bed, her feet planted on the floor a few measures away, so that she was stretched. Her back was flat, her legs straight and spread a little apart; her bottom, her sex, presented.

It made Belle flush with exposure and apprehension. She felt the heat of it at the small of her back, at her face. She felt such _awareness_ of Rumpelstiltskin. She felt, still, the wetness between her legs, a hot throb of want, and feared it running down her leg.

Standing beside her, Rumpelstiltskin began undoing the buttons on his waistcoat. Belle watched, riveted. Would he undress? He lay the garment of brocade on the bed, then unbuttoned his shirt at collar and wrists. Taking his time, he rolled up his sleeves to mid-forearm. That done, he met her eyes, and said, "You can't imagine how ravishing this is, Belle."

"Ravishing?" Belle tasted the word, as she tasted words like 'witchery' and 'Rumpelstiltskin'.

"Yes. I'm _ravished_. It's difficult to stay on track. To complete your... punishment."

She wanted to voice that there was really no need for it... He could, as in stories, just _take_ her. Though she hadn't imagined that she'd be standing in this awkward position, breasts swaying beneath her, for the event. Before she could bring herself to utter a word, Rumpelstiltskin said, "However, dearie, we must stay the course."

With that, his hand made contact with her exposed bum. The sound of the slap was loud; louder, it seemed, in the room of stone and shadow. The blow rocked Belle forward, landing her on her elbows with a yelp. She felt the sting of it, the pain rather unexpected. She was surprised to feel tears pricking the corners of her eyes. But she also felt a sort of pleasure... a willingness to continue, to endure.

The slap had landed low, nearly the underside of her buttock, the top of her thigh. It made a vibration, a humming thrill at her sex. She wanted more of it... more of his hands on her.

Breathing in gulps of air, she felt Rumpelstiltskin's fingers on the insides of her thighs. He said, "So wet, love. Such a wet pussy, dripping cunt." His voice was low and husky.

Belle groaned inwardly.... As he'd said days earlier, it was all out in the open, now.

His knuckles grazed against her sex, and she gasped, squirming. She lifted her bottom, wanting his touch, unable to stop the reflexes of her hips. He slapped her, then, over and over. She heard herself cry out, and felt the sting of it like angry bees.... her flesh growing sharply hot, her skin trying to crawl away from the raw abuse. And yet she wanted it... His fingers grazed against her sex, sometimes deliberately teasing her there, just at the edge of her opening, his hand laying, warm still, over hot, burning skin. When he moved his hand, the cold air against her was almost as agitating as the heat.

He paused, walking slowly to her other side, boots clacking on the floor, his fingers trailing over the small of her back as he went. For a time he caressed her, his hand moving up and down her spine, under the chemise. It comforted, and Belle rested her head on her arms, making her breathing even. She was again surprised to realize that she cried, tears wetting her face. Her excitement was making the pain into something else, and yet she was feeling it.... the pain.

"I think only one more, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin said, his voice gruff. It was a strange relief to hear his voice. Belle's backside, her thighs felt welted and stung, but she was surprised for it to end so soon.

"I'm alright..." she said, giving a sniff.

"I may not be." he replied, and the open handed slap came again, low on her left buttock, such a hotly, sharp stinging. After a moment of his hand lingering in place, he moved it to stroke directly between her legs.

 _"Oh!'_ Belle thought she might faint, so intense was her relief at his touch. His fingers stroked over the wet length of her sex, sliding against the hot, little bud giving her so much trouble. He stroked between folds of flesh, a slow exploration. He stroked over her opening, but didn't penetrate. Belle's hips rose and rocked, seeking his hand, the side of her face pressed to the bed, hands fisted in the bedclothes.

She was undone, her cries climbing; cries that were passion, distress, pain and relief. Rumpelstiltskin kept touching, stroking; feather-light and teasing. He leaned down, near her face, and said, "Good girl. Good, sweet girl."

"Please," Belle whispered. She opened her eyes to him.

"Please what, love?" Oh, how his eyes _blazed_.

"Please, I need you." she whispered.

His hand was gone from her sex, and Belle watched, both embarrassed and fascinated, as he sucked deeply on his two middle fingers. He sniffed about his hand, and - if anything - his eyes blazed even more. They were embers.

"You needn't be positioned for punishment, dearie." he said, and Belle had a glimpse of the leering monster.

Standing upright, he helped her up as well, then, without ceremony, he held the neck of her chemise and tore it from her body. Belle jumped, a little hunched over, feeling somehow the more naked for her stockings. Rumpelstiltskin _tsked_ her, prodding her to better posture. He moved his hands up and down her arms, under her breasts, along her sides. He pressed his lips softly to hers, a sweet kiss. Then he buried his hands in her hair, and the kiss became what Belle remembered.... open, searching mouths, the shock; electric; of his tongue meeting hers. The soft, wet brushing and suckling of lips.

She moaned, her arms going around him, her body sagging in it's overwhelmed weakness. It felt so strange to be so naked, so filled with an arousal that almost stole her identity, and to be pressed to Rumpelstiltskin's body, fully clothed in his finery. Kissing her still, he walked her backwards a step so that her body found the bed again, and he pressed her down upon it, his body over hers.

The bedclothes irritated the stinging of her backside, as did his hands, stroking and grasping at her bottom, her thighs. Belle's body jerked a little, and her knees moved up on either side of Rumpelstiltskin's body, her hips rocking against the hard ridge of him, trapped in leather. He was devouring her.... a near constant purr of breath and _mmm_ accompanied his open mouthed kiss. His hands moved all over; fisting in her hair, caressing at her throat, squeezing her breasts. Each time he caressed from her hip to the back of her thigh, encouraging the embrace of her legs, the burning feeling of his slaps flared to life. But, nearly in sync with the hurt came the feeling of his fingers, edging so near her sex. The leather of his trousers had warmed with their mutual body heat, and Belle was helpless to her rocking, to the slick friction of his grind against her. Each time he released her mouth to suck and bite at her neck, her breasts, she was left open-mouthed, writhing, gasping with cries. Her hands moved over him blindly... feeling his warmth seeping through his clothes, the roll of his shoulders and the flexing of his hips; the taut strength of his arms. His mouth returned to hers, and she was flooded with sensation, and with _taste_ , _Scent_. It was as if his body poured it's message into her, his tongue sometimes flickering against hers in a butterfly-tease, and sometimes it muscled into her mouth, stealing her breath and making a rhythm, with the rocking of his hips, that foreshadowed _penetration... fucking_.

Belle thought she might die. Her feelings; her need and the pleasure of kissing, his body over hers; the feeling of all of it rose and rose, and she could see no end in sight. The air seemed alive around her, her thoughts moving into the room; live, loud, cavorting things... So that she, pinned to the bed, was thoughtless.

Rumpelstilskin rolled to one side, opening her legs wider, and stared down at her, breathing hard. Belle couldn't control her breathing at all... She felt a mess; destroyed and yet very alive; and her shyness seemed to have fled. She took a strange and very new pleasure in her openness, a pleasure in his eyes on her body. The wrestling of their bodies and his shift in position left her legs frogged open, and she felt - as he'd said - wanton. Shameless. In the absence of his body, that mysterious ridge pressed to her sex, she rocked her hips and liked it that he watched. His gaze swept from her face to her sex and back, pausing as he held and squeezed her breasts. Belle rocked through all of it, trying to ease her ache... needing, she was certain, his _cock_.

He bent down, his curls covering her chest in a soft tickle, and suckled her. Belle gasped, reeling with the sensation, rolling her head to the side, eyes closed to bear the intensity of it... his lips, his tongue laving over her sensitized nipples, sucking her into his mouth. Shocks of pleasure rippled down from her nipples to her sex, and Rumpelstiltsking followed the path with his fingers.

Belle whimpered as he touched her, there... he found the hard, little bud and tapped it lightly with his fingertips, then drew slow, wet circles around it. His head rose from her breasts, their wet peaks darkened and hard, and Belle knew he watched her. She couldn't open her eyes, caught in the high-strung feeling of his finger. She was a wire pulled tight.... would she snap? Break?

The circling, tormenting finger moved lower, sliding in slick wetness, and then made a slow, careful and deliberate penetration of her sex.

With a gasp, Belle opened her eyes. He was watching her face, and asked, "Does it hurt, love?" _Eyes. Blazed._

Belle nodded, and felt confused. It wasn't a sharp pain, but there was an ache, a pain that was... resistance?

"You're... untried." Rumpelstiltskin said. An entirely new onslaught of sensations hit Belle as he began to slowly move his finger, in and out, in and out. Breathy, he said, "You may have taken care of your maidenhead, but you're still so untouched... so tight. Is it feeling better?"

Belle moaned in answer, her eyes closing again. Her body had frozen with the penetration, but she began to move again, sliding against his finger, feeling the way her body squeezed. Oh... she _wanted_.... she wanted so much.

"That's it, love," Rumpelstiltskin whispered. "Ride against it. Ride my finger." He sucked against her breasts again, then his lips found hers, lightly brushing against them. It teased, tormented. Belle's cries were pitched, rising again as he added a second finger. In a blur of feeling, Belle found he was stretched beside her; one arm extended to clasp her wrists above her head, the other opposite, fingers inside her. His fingers _fucked_ her; hard, fast.... She felt the heel of his hand in a steady pounding against the _evil_ bud; she heard his ragged breath and the wet slap of his hand working her. She felt her body move, her breasts jiggling with the impact of the fast rhythm he made, and she felt herself going taut inside. The wire that was her was pulled ever tighter, dangerously so, her sex like a vice, squeezing his fingers.

Was she breathing? She couldn't open her eyes if her life depended on it, her eyelids weighted. She was suspended in one long, endless note of pleasure, woven through with pain that yet was pleasure, her head thrown back and mouth wide open. She felt Rumpelstiltskin's tongue flicker over her lips, and her body bucked. She was so sensitive, everywhere... she radiated heat.

He lay his head down, then, his mouth at her ear. Belle was undone by the sound of his breath, alone, and then he murmured, " _Come_ for me, dearie.... Come all over my hand. Get your pussy all over me.... show me how much you love my finger.... _fucking_ your pussy."

Belle wasn't even sure what it was to 'come', but her body understood. His words, his _voice_ finally severed the wire she'd become. The feeling that she wouldn't survive this experience had been growing... that the ending would somehow tear her asunder.... and the conclusion, in it's way, _was_ traumatic. A feeling came, excruciating in piercing intensity at her sex, but singing all over her body. She arched... her sex squeezed so hard, Rumpelstiltskin's fingers were pushed out of her, and she felt herself _gush_. Light, a burst of it, like an explosion, and a roaring sound filled her head; and the cry that she distantly recognized as coming from herself was harsh, ugly, ragged.

The only idea that seemed right was that she'd been somehow ripped open by the light, the noise inside of her.... the fever pitch, unsustainable, simply made her insides burst. It was pleasure rather than pain she felt; intense and breathtaking; and yet she trembled with it, under it's control for prolonged, gasping seconds, not unlike being in the grip of pain. Something like contractions, waves, moved and rolled through her.... she was a vessel for this thing.... Had Rumpelstiltskin put a demon inside of her?

The thought was barely even a thought. Belle began to realize that she'd been away... Where had she been? Though Rumpelstiltskin was right beside her, partially laying on her, for moments she'd lost him. She hadn't been in the room... she'd been inside of a storm. She'd been a storm.

She felt as though the room began to materialize around her, molecule by molecule. Rumpelstiltskin was solid again, and she realized he'd released her wrists. She brought her arms down slowly... they ached, as if they'd been restrained for a long time. Her shoulders, and then - slowly - the rest of her body seemed to come back to her; to reveal the trauma of the tension that had been endured, followed by the rending, the hallowing. There was, at last, a stillness in her.

It remained even when Rumpelstiltskin placed the palm of his hand on her lower belly, pressing firmly. Belle groaned, and realized that her hips still made a subtle rocking motion. Her head was quiet, but little shocks, smaller waves, still moved inside of her, now more centered at her sex. His hand moved lower, cupping her sex, fingertips massaging in a firm way at her opening.

Belle flinched, rolling her head, slowly opening her eyes to look at him. She tried, weakly, to close her legs... the flesh between them felt so tender and sensitive. Rumpelstiltskin looked back at her, oddly sleepy-eyed. His eyes were so deeply hooded, the amber flickering from deep shadow, and she still saw the little spark that was the blaze. Like herself, he seemed more quiet. He pressed his lips to hers.

Belle flinched again, sensitive even at her mouth. But he kept both mouth and hand in place, and a pressing, soft suckle of a kiss began. Belle sighed deeply into it, turning to face him and trapping his hand between her legs in the process. He didn't seem to mind. Where his fingers caressed, the sensitivity of her flesh became bearable, then pleasant. She rocked gently, her lips in a soft nuzzle against his.

"You are so lovely." he murmured.

Belle huffed a little laugh. She didn't feel lovely. She felt sated, happy, blissful... pleased that Rumpelstiltskin was so near and warm, accessible, wanting... She felt like a different person, now. But she felt a mess. Immodest, capsized, witnessed in the throes of something.... crazy. A slattern. Something of a wretch.

It was then the _gush_ came back to her, and in her sudden mortification, her rocking stopped. Her eyes grew wide, and then she covered them with her hand.

"What is it, dearie?" Rumpelstiltskin asked.

Oh, dear lord.

"Rumpel, did I....? Oh.... did I _wet_ the bed?"

He gave a gleeful giggle, making Belle peek from her fingers. She gave a little, startled trill as his fingers made a tickling motion between her legs; a happy, spider-leg dance to accompany his glee. She squeezed her thighs to still his hand, and he pouted.

Eyes still smiling over his pout, her said, "No, dearie. Well, you didn't _piss_ the bed. But the experience certainly was wet."

"What _was_ that?"

"Mmmm," Rumpelstiltskin rolled even closer to her, seeming to scent about her face, as he'd done before. Cat-like, he purred. "You came, dearie. Or hadn't you noticed."

"But... so much wetness? Like water?"

He giggled again, smile broad. "That was rather new for me as well, love. But it happens. And I did instruct you to 'come all over my hand'. Look how obedient one little spanking made you."

"Oh no..." Belle closed her eyes. This was all so unladylike. Soon she'd start keeping a plug of tobacco tucked under her lip, occasionally spitting out a stream of brown liquid for the amusement of children.

"Oh, yes..." Rumpelstiltskin said, all warm, moving body and content purr. His groin rocked against her leg... he was a big animal, luxuriating in petting. "Don't worry, dearie. It was exciting. Gratifying, to say the least. And definitely not piss... it came from here." He slipped his middle finger inside her to the knuckle, and Belle gasped.

Moving his finger a little, he nuzzled against Belle. After a moment, her eyes wanting to flutter closed again, feeling his breath on her lips, she unclenched her legs. "Mmm," Rumpelstiltskin said. The finger inside her began a more frank, though gentle thrusting. "You squeezed so hard," he murmured, "... the force of it, and the flooding, pushed my fingers out of you."

He sounded quite breathy, quite overcome with reliving this part of what they'd done. It was very new for Belle... That a man would appreciate such a rude, animal aspect of a woman. Were they all like this? She'd been led to believe that men loved the ornamental side of women above all. Ladies, decorated with fine clothing and possessing good decorum. Celebrations of beauty.

She'd read about heaving bosoms and thrusting members and swooning.... even a mention or two of succumbing to a climax. (The words revealed nothing, Belle thought, of what had happened to her.) But even those pursued ladies, bursting from their corsets and whatnot, never showed any evidence of the wet torment she'd been experiencing. Certainly they didn't confess to a flood of liquid convulsing from between their legs.

The nuzzling kiss with Rumpelstiltskin became more urgent. Belle wrapped her arms around him, shamelessly pulling his shirt free of his trousers and feeling the skin of his back. They both moaned, and Rumpelstiltskin, _kitty_ , arched a bit to her touch. He felt so warm... his skin was soft, except for patches of roughness here and there, especially along his spine. She felt and massaged, feeling the movement of firm muscle; feeling vertebra and ribs, the movement of his shoulders.

He withdrew his finger, and Belle was again rather startled to see him suck it into his mouth. It was so weirdly erotic... the flutter of his gossamer eyelashes, the furrow of his brow and the hollowing of his cheeks.

Noting her stare, he smiled. "I like the way your pussy tastes." he said. "The way you smell. It makes my cock throb when I taste you."

"Oh." Belle said, softly. Then, "You must undress." She began unbuttoning his shirt. "I can't be alone in this any longer. You must support me."

"Oh?" Rumpelstiltskin looked curious, watching her fingers, at work on his buttons.

Nodding, Belle said, "It's the gentlemanly thing to do."

"Really, dearie? I doubt you'll think there's anything gentlemanly going on beneath these trousers."

Belle smiled at him, then pushed the shirt off, watching him roll his shoulders as he pulled his arms from the sleeves. Tossing the shirt aside, he looked at Belle rather shyly.

"Ta-da," he said quietly, without showmanship. When she didn't speak, he said, "I'm afraid it's not so lush an unveiling as you, love."

"Hush." Belle said. She was overwhelmed to finally see so much of him.... He was a skinny, ribby thing. His coppery-greenish skin was a dark, mauve sort hue at his nipples. Almost plum. There was a hungry looking dip beneath his sternum, and then a long, flat belly, a bit concave at the deep recess of his navel. Looking at him made an ache in her chest, and she realized there was something boyish she was seeing. Something vulnerable, in spite of his impossible age and his Curse. His arms were toned and firm; well, if not heavily muscled. But the shadows at his collar bones, the sweep from jutting hip bone to flank and flat belly, disappearing narrowly into the trousers... these things were instantly, troublingly sexy to Belle... startling in their human fragility.

She moved her hands over him, watching him smile and gasp when she toyed with his flat nipples, as he'd toyed with her. She was surprised when they puckered, and pleased at his little intake of breath when she flicked the tip of her tongue over one.

"Does that feel good to you?" she asked, curious.

Looking bemused, he gave a little nod. "So... skinny, green men are your thing, then?"

Smiling, Belle said, "So it would appear. Can you take these off?" she hooked a finger under the waist of his trousers, and watched his chest rise and fall.

"Indeed." he agreed.

He turned, pulling off his boots, then he lay on his back... unspeakably, sinuously sexy to Belle, and began undoing the buttons of his trousers. It took a moment; the package therein seemed to have become cumbersome, making the buttons difficult. Then they were undone... Belle watched as, feet flat on the bed, Rumpelstiltskin pushed his hips up and eased the trousers down. The hidden thing, his _cock_ , Belle thought, seemed to have been trapped at his thigh. Like a live thing, it slowly righted itself... it made a fulsome arc, skimming over the hollow of his left hipbone, and came to rest on his belly. Belle had never seen anything like it... It was _not_ thumb-sized.

Rumpelstiltskin's face looked both somber and nervous, pensive. He watched Belle as he pushed off the leather and lay back down. He seemed not to know what to do with his hands... one arm wound up behind his head, propping him; his other hand came to rest over his heart. Belle thought she might see it beating; certainly she saw a fluttering pulse at his neck, and she was arrested to see that thing, his cock, make a subtle jump with his pulse.

 _Blood_. Blood that drums. Did that ripe and leaking, yearning thing feel at all like the little bud of her sex? The little nub that harried her.

He cleared his throat, and Belle's eyes travelled from the amazing and still mysterious appendage, (and that burdensome looking bit beneath, dangling down between the somewhat hollowed planes of his inner thighs), up to his face. The eyes so full of iris; they were overly bright, perhaps with nerves. He tilted his head at her, rolling it on his arm, and asked, "Does all of this... please you, dearie?"

Belle swallowed. She felt concave, carved out. She was an ache of curiosity, need that was again growing. "Yes." she said. Her eyes roved over his body... Why was his skinniness so attractive to her? His long fingers, long toes; his prominent bones and the dips and hollows they made... For the first time she felt herself as rather expansive. Especially so blatantly naked, perched beside him. Rumpelstiltskin was laid out like a sacrifice, (to a goddess of old, Belle thought; a fertility goddess who is symbolized by bees and the letter B); She was all breasts and curving hips, soft where he was bony; wet where he looked as though he burned.

"I feel objectified." Rumpelstiltskin complained, a slow smile on his face.

The look Belle gave was droll. " _You."_

He laughed at that. The hand over his heart slid down his torso. He reached out to Belle, and she took his hand in both of hers, stroking and toying with it.

"I just don't understand, dearie. Look at your delicate, little hands... your fingernails like seashell. How can you not be repelled by my claws? Talons."

Belle was distracted by the little jump she kept seeing at his groin. The length of that thing... stretching to his navel, leaking a little, shining pool there. She closed her eyes with a shiver, and kissed the warm palm of his maligned hand. It was herself she scented there, she realized. Musky, not unpleasant, but still startling to her senses.

"You don't have claws," she murmured against his palm. "You're just darker than me. Darker skin, darker nails... none of it..."

"...Disgusts you?"

"No."

With a sigh, he took his hand from her and folded it loosely about his cock. Merely seeing this small act made Belle tilt forward and catch her breath, knocked off-balance by the wave that happened inside of her. She pressed her thighs together in a small agony, and Rumpelstiltskin gave her a curious look.

"You like that?" he asked. "When I touch it?"

"Yes." Belle breathed. Her eyes burned.

"I wouldn't have thought that. I just... had to, for a moment."

She watched him stroke it in the loose-fisted hold... slow, sensuous... His hand moved to caress the full sack beneath, one of his knees akimbo. His eyelashes fluttered; his mouth, full from kissing, was slack. He let out a deep breath and brought his hand back to Belle. The backs of his fingers. rough knuckles, teased over her breasts.

"You _do_ like that." he sing-songed."You're a peculiar woman, Belle."

"Don't I know it."

Her eyes met his... she felt so scorched, so heavy. So often, now, it felt that lust was such a heavy thing on her... A drug, a spell. It made her eyes want to close when she wanted to see _everything_.

"Do you want to touch it?" He asked.

"I do," she said, too warm, breathless. "I don't really know how."

Rumpelstiltskin gave a little chuckle, fingertips under her breast, feeling her heft. "Are you worried about _technique_ , dearie? Just satisfy your.... curiosity. You don't need to try and make me come."

.... oh.... The squeeze happened again. That bearing down, so deep at her core. That almost-pain.

"If anything, dearie, I have to summon all of the power of the Dark One to try _not_ to come. Or at least delay it."

When Belle looked puzzled, he said, "Men are easy, love. A bit quicker to achieve climax... it doesn't take much."

"You would utilize the Dark Arts to delay climax?"

"If necessary, dearie," he grinned. "One likes the pleasure to last.... especially when savoring such a luscious, lush girl as yourself." His hand cupped her breast fully, squeezing, and Belle felt the loose, aching, swelling gasp that was the wave, filling her chest and receding, over and over. His cock truly jumped when he squeezed her, not the subtle, pulsing throb. It lifted from his flat belly, then fell. With a soft thump.

Seeing that her gaze was locked on it, Rumpelstiltskin asked, "Is it anything like your toy, love?"

Cheeks flaring up, Belle said, "No..." That object had been smooth, cylindrical... cold. It had been unyielding, and not as long.... not, Belle thought, as wide around as Rumpelstiltskin. Especially at the tip... the head?

Scooting closer, feet tucked beneath her, Belle touched her fingertips just below his sternum. She watched his body tremble, and felt a measure of her power over him. She remembered how he'd fallen to his knees before her, pressed his face to her belly. Clung to her.

His hand stayed at her breast, fondling, sometimes squeezing reflexively as Belle's fingertips moved down, feeling skin that was sometimes raised and rough, but sometimes so soft, it was silky. His chest was hairless, but there was soft, downy hair under his arms, and thicker at his groin. A light trail of it went from just below his navel to his... cock. The hair on his body was almost a non-color, a nude sort of shimmer, but was caramel colored at his groin. On his arms and legs she couldn't really see it, but for the subtle shimmer; she could feel it's feather-light softness. With sudden impulse, Belle leaned down and kissed his belly, just above his belly-button, the skin so soft there. Then she brushed a quick kiss against the ruddy head of his cock.

Rrumpelstiltskin made a gruff sound, and his hips spasmed in a little jump; his cock bopped her rudely in the face, almost in her eye, and Belle giggled.

Both hands covering his face, Rumpelstiltskin groaned. "I'm sorry, dearie," he said, sounding sheepish. "You caught me quite by surprise."

"I'm sorry." Belle smiled.

"No need." he breathed. She saw the muscles beneath his skin tremble where her hair brushed against him..... his belly, his thighs. With her fingertip she touched the head of his cock, collecting a bead of moisture and trailing it down the deep cleft. He was so sensitive... his belly and chest rose and fell with his gasps; his hands clenched the bedclothes.

"It's so soft." Belle said.

"Rather not."

"No, the skin, I mean. Especially here..." she kissed the head again, nuzzling her parted lips against him, feeling skin that was like the skin of an apricot. Rumpelstiltskin made a sound like a suppressed whimper, his hips beginning to rock. Experimenting, Belle licked him very lightly, along the cleft, and then gave the full, ridged head a very wet kiss. Nearly a suckle, as he did with her breasts.... it was a sensual feeling; velvet, wet silk, apricot...

"Oh, _fuck_..." he breathed, and the rocking of his hips pushed more of him into her mouth; her lips grazed the shaft, so hot, just below the ridge. He was so full in her mouth... she closed her eyes and her tongue swirled around soft skin and a spongy hardness. His body had a smoky scent, and at his groin he smelled of something else, besides. A musk, somewhat like her own scent, but accompanied by something.... yeasty? Like baking bread... or maybe peppery...

His hands fisted in her hair, his hips moved, and Belle realized.... he was _fucking_ her mouth. He'd spread his legs, giving her room between. She lay over one warm, firm thigh, her breasts pillowed against it. She couldn't take much of him in her mouth, but his urgent breath, the cries he tried to hold back, made her want to try. She stroked over his belly, his hips, eyes closed and focused on his feel and taste. Moaning, Rumpelstiltskin brought his hand to the shaft, and began a slow rhythm of stroking as Belle nursed the head. Her head was spinning... his scent, his wavering control... the intimacy of the kiss... the molten heat of his cock...

It was strange and difficult, but she raised her eyes, lids so heavy, almost afraid to meet his eyes while so... servile. She felt helpless to her need, so wet, all over again....

His eyes were slits, watching her intensely, his lips parted. His breathing was heavy, and he whisper-rasped, "Yes... yes..."

His eyes meeting hers caused another spasm; he brought his other hand down, fingers at her jaw, thumb touching her lips where she suckled him. He slipped his thumb into her mouth, feeling her tongue and the flared head of his cock.

"Belle... your _mouth,"_ he breathed."...oh, suck me... suck my cock..."

Belle whimpered, a flush going over her face and chest... her skin prickled everywhere. Suddenly he sat up, his cock popping out of her mouth with a wet, smacking lasciviousness. Holding her face, he kissed her deeply, tongue aggressive and wrestling in a silky slide against hers. Belle held to his thighs, her hands sliding down their muscled slope, her thumbs coming to graze against the warm, animal feeling of cock and balls.

"Come here, dearie." he whispered, breaking the kiss. Belle would do anything, she knew. Be led anywhere. Her willingness, her desire was written on her plainly, it's own spell.

She didn't have any sense of the wrestling, arranging of bodies... It seemed she was in his arms and he flipped her with ease... he was on top of her, his mouth still ravishing hers, his hips moving between her open legs. She felt him move his hand between their bodies, and then... he was there. The full head of his cock was pressed to her opening, where she was so wet. They both moaned into the kiss as he rubbed there, getting himself wetter, moving into her a little. And then he slid fully into her, hilted. Their mouths broke apart, each with a cry. Belle's hands held to his hips, his buttocks, clutching and pulling at him. He lost all control.

His arms folded around her completely, locked beneath her, his face buried at her neck, his thrusts fast and hard. Belle's teeth rattled, the bed shook, it's frame noisy on the floor. Her body convulsed and squeezed, her legs wrapped around his back. She felt she was going mad, hearing his hoarse voice in her ear. "Ohh... god, _fuck_.... Belle, you feel so good..."

Her hips began to rise to meet his driving thrusts, her mind and sex linked in harmony to the wet slide of his cock; the hardness of him, the rippling texture of vein and pulsing blood. Her own breathy cries nearly drowned him out, but she heard his gasp, felt him drive into her harder. He liked her eagerness... he wanted it.

His voice rising, he cried, _"Yes! Fuck me, fuck me..."_

Something in it... a delirium caused by the aggression of his body and the submission, supplication in his voice, brought Belle to the edge. Her body locked to his, her head thrown back as she felt the waves pound over her. Take her. At her ear, whispering, puppy-like, Rumpelstiltskin moaned, _"I'm coming... Oh, Belle.... I'm coming_..."

He locked her her as surely as she'd locked to him... sheathed snugly in the fluttering, convulsing, wet, velvet squeeze of her sex, his balls a warm nuzzle against her bottom. He emptied into her, her involuntary contractions all but milking him, his body so taut, it felt like steel to Belle. And then he suddenly relaxed, bone and muscle gone liquid, his weight falling on her. They lay there, tangled and breathing hard, unable to speak.

 

 

"That'll teach you to lose focus, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin said, when speech finally seemed possible. His lips moved against her neck... he was very much cradled in Belle's arms, her hands soothing up and down his back.

"But Rumpel," she said softly, close to sleep. "This is all I've been focused on. Who's to say this isn't my witchery? My spell?"

"Mmm. Indeed."

　

 


	10. Trances and Birds

Rumpelstiltskin looked at Belle's journal, without apology (or disclosure), and he read these words:

 

_Magical task at hand, I will go into the wilderness. It is the time of silver fishes darting in and out of shadow, and nebulae glowing and spinning in the ocean of heaven. He cries out to me from Orion, he hangs there, married to sorrow, forever. The song of it howls from the Dog Star._

_Oh, my love, my lost love, lost and lonely; a spark of ruby, garnet, bloodstone; black as night. Do you plan on haunting me always?_

_The Holly King soon to be overthrown... men can be so unaware of their animal grace and beauty._

_Sons of men, hearken to the lessons of the sons of fire. We come from the inky well, we come from the places of light and fire, we come from the ashes of stars. Welcome to the Motherhouse on the Hill, filled with lights you know nothing of... Follow me, I trail one, spindly finger along the wall as we walk, and the light follows._

_Ghostlights, in the woods as foxfire, on the water, dancing you to your doom; light as memory, light as alive. My secret is energy, the holding of it in my hands that I hold to you; Enter here, and be with the serpent. In stillness, put your ear to my cupped handful of blood that yet lives, and hear it's sound; the buzzing and singing._

_Mysteries of sound, water, of energy and light._

_We have found the places in the earth where the songs are most true, and now, here are the temples. I come to you in the temple and give my offering of crystal, feather and honey. Bless me with your kiss, and the sound that travels through my body. Bless me with your hands, bringing the dreams of moving, flying, hurtling through blackness.... stars, colors, angels... worlds within worlds and without, again. Bless me with your body so that I am grounded here, once more; magnetic is the Earth and the drumbeat of your blood; the pulse that deafens my ears, the wave crashing down._

_Inanna, Ishtar, Astarte, Asherah... Holy Elath, he and his Asherah._

_Are we forever suspended from the nebula that lives in Orion? The Eye, the realm, the tesseract, the wrinkle, the Dog Star. Your teachings scattered over the Earth as crystal shards, magics, spirits, sciences... coins over doorways and the bejeweling of the daughters of Eve... they hear you so much more clearly than their brothers. Their brothers in spirit, spirits in the wilderness._

_Darkness Rider, he is Fey; he is elf-shot and cursed and wandering this world, building and musing unto himself. He kisses her wrists and looks into her eyes, and this makes the spell, as he makes spells. Breath and pressure, sound and intent; he wove it with the spirits of air, as he spins spirits of fire, and sealed it in her veins, to travel her body, such as we are made of._

_Secret undine, curled inside the snail's shell, emerge covered in the shimmering gossamer, to be pulled away as a veil. He took her veil._

_The innocense was feigned, as he knows magic and works his will. Inside the Rider is a man, centuries old; once they called him Cain, horns upon his brow, and he has died many times since then and gained knowledge. Once they called him Shemyaza, and hung him from a Dog Star... but he returned, howling wrath and scenting the ground for those that betrayed him. He found them, and made holy hell, blood and feather and bone, spitting out the gobbets of gristle and fat._

_She won't see it; she sees the elf, she sees the beauty of what was forged in fire, that which came from pain and desperation, and holds compassion, still. He looks to her, his eyes are pools of untold depths and worlds; he drapes her in seaweed and again makes the spell. They sat at the water, together, and he gave her the egg, but it's shell is soft and thick and pulsing. It is blue run through with red and lavender veins, and one thick and frightful artery. He breathes upon it and watches her eyes._

_He is so cunning, the gifts that he gives her, the things he wakes inside her; She grows and expands until, time after time, life after life, she is open to him._

_Giver of dreams, of eggs; Is it true to say you have no power over me? Even if I reject all but my own heart, and run wild in wilderness, magic at hand, chasing after a kill, or a pleasure, or a lesson; sleeping in mosses and hunting after mushrooms, presenting my swollen senses to the sex of Dionysus; Even then, am I not in your power? If I reject you, am I still you, behind my own back, nursing an egg?_

_If I am a woman, alone, making visions of smoke, ensconsed in the magics of home and garden, allowing spirit to live and be, and the physical body to sleep; Will you slip in the keyhole in secret to pull the strings? A figure in fire, casually competent. A knowledge of secret weapons and the face of the lost and the lonely._

_... Here she is... she has finally slipped out of the spiral shell and cracked open the veil, the shell of gossamer; Out stepped the Goblin Queen. The lost and the lonely. Words will out as blood will out. You held the egg he gave you, and you knew he gave you a spirit of fire, of creativity, of magic; and you wanted him, too. I followed you in dreams of underground rooms, filled with the roots of trees and crystals growing in secret darkness. I couldn't find you, but I knew it was one of your rooms._

_How many times have there been? You, on your kitchen chair, or Goblin throne, legs wide open? You wear your Goblin clothes, the red and the green, the fire and the earth; but your invitation is plain, and you call to him, always. You call out to Orion._

_Wild in the woods, hanging from the star; Darkness Rider, he is Fey. He kisses her wrist._

Rumpelstiltskin stared at the last page of writing with an uneasy, mounting feeling of strangeness. As if not in his body, and yet he wasn't with the owl.

"What the _fuck_?"

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"You're _reading_ my journal?" Belle was aghast. The betrayal was bad, but the _things_ she'd written about sex... with him. Dear lord.

Impatient, he shook the leather bound journal at her, pages rattling.

"Yes, yes, yes. _Dark One_ , remember? _Evil_. What _is_ this you've written?"

"Er..." To what was he referring? She didn't want to call attention to anything he might have missed, or skimmed over. (... his cock, long and thick, swings like a pendulum on a tall clock when he walks about the room...)

She blushed deeply, and for a moment he lost his urgency and leered at her. So inaccessible in his ridiculous, dramatic high collar and head to toe leather.... Some sort of glam-queen, dungeon master.

"It's not about _that_ , dearie. Though I may want to discuss those things in some detail, later. It's _this_."

He opened her journal to the next to the last entry. This is what had him riled? This gibberish?

"I don't know what that is." she said. "Just lazy-minded, nonsense words, I guess. Free association."

"Association to _what?"_

Belle shrugged. "It just came out. I really don't know what it is. You told me to be still in the mornings, to practice. And so I have. And then, the other day, I sat down after and wrote _that_. It must be all of that monkey chatter you tell me about. It just spilled from the pen."

Belle was satisfied with this this explanation, for she wasn't hiding anything.... There was no lie in it. But Rumpelstiltskin was not.

"... What....?" he spluttered a bit, hands articulate. He'd worked up a right snit. He opened the journal and read, as if reciting, "'Inanna, Ishtar, Astarte, Asherah. Holy Elath, he and his Asherah.' Who the fuck _are_ these people, Belle?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know." He cocked his head, smiling the words to the air above, as if confounded.

Now she was rattled. He was clearly bothered, and he actually seemed suspicious... of _her._ His accent of origin was getting thicker with his agitation.

".... Rumpel..."

"Oh no, missie. Don't 'Rumpel' me. There are _names_ in this document."

"It's not a doc-"

"And who is speaking? It shifts all around.... A man? A woman? A spirit? A deity?"

"Well, I never said I was any sort of wri-"

"Belle!" He held her upper arms so tightly, Belle was sure there would be bruises for each finger and both thumbs. He hurt her. He shook her, very much in her face, his eyes wild. She thought her brain was rolling around.

"What made you write this? Who _are_ you? What do you know?"

It was her tears that stopped him. They sprang to her eyes when he grabbed her, (with his _talons_ , his _claws_ ), but spilled over with the shouting, the shaking. Because he was upset with her, and she didn't know why.

Seeing her tears, his face went slack. It was as if a storm winked out of existence. He released her arms, and for some moments stood with his arms up, as if under arrest. Then he turned his back to her and walked to a window, calming himself.

"I'm sorry." he said, softly.

Belle made some sound from her sniffling sob. Some little acknowledgment. Not quite turning to her, he said, "There are no books about the Dark One, dearie. No one, not even myself, knows what it is."

Hugging herself, rubbing her upper arms, Belle wondered what the devil that had to do with his tantrum.

"I think you wrote about the Dark One." He turned to look at her, but kept his distance. "Maybe you wrote in a trance... Or maybe something... possessed you. I think what you wrote has something to do with what the Dark One _is_... And I think even I came into that writing. Even you. It's a bit murky."

Petulant, Belle said, "Well, I didn't _mean_ to. Why do you think it?"

"Because, dearie. Since taking on this Curse, I've often dreamt of fragments of what you wrote."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hours had gone by, and he still hadn't settled himself enough to be normal with her. Or to be _with_ her. He was locked away in the tower room that smelled so much like him... smoke, oakmoss, storm and alyssum. Belle was left to wander, fretting. And he still had the journal... And, damn it, it was _hers_. _He_ was in the wrong, no matter what she'd written. (... his cock, so hot, like velvet on pliable, molten steel inside of me...). She gave a little shudder. Was there to be _no_ privacy?

This, she realized, annoyed, was difficult. It was difficult to know that she, _she!_ had troubled or displeased him in some way. She didn't know how to fix it. And... difficult as well... she didn't feel it was hers to fix. She'd done nothing! She kept trying to hold onto to this, like holding onto a piece of herself; she was blameless. It was he who should seek her out and be remorseful. So the demon got the better of him... she could forgive it and they could be together. _Together_. Belle was appalled at how little she could bear to be away from him, and at how hard it was to remember that he was at fault. What had happened to her?

She wanted to beat the tower door down and cry with her head in his lap, then feel him pet her hair, her face, as she took him in her mouth.

Appalled, she fled the castle. It was like an _illness._ A poison. She was poisoned with Rumpelstilskin.

He didn't like her to go far without him. No further than the courtyard, really. But Belle decided she needed a proper airing, for she could only see life as revolving around Rumpelstiltskin and sex. She'd lost the ability to see, to want anything else. And now... she was alone with this _lack_. This emptiness of self. She was ashamed to feel such weakness. Even leaving the castle, striking out, she felt the shame of her dependence. She became aware that she was nursing fantasies of some not terribly malign disaster befalling her, and being the distressed damsel that Rumpelstiltskin rescued. He would come with apologies, and maybe chocolate, and swear to never leave her side.

"Bloody hell, shut up," she growled to herself.

She took her heaviest cloak and set out. She would walk just to the edge of the woods and back, across the craggy grasslands, (wastelands, said the villages; Deadlands), that surrounded the Dark Castle. Through the courtyard, the gatehouse, the outer courtyard... the wind howled and moaned. Past the stables and outer gatehouse, it stopped.

Belle stopped as well, staring back at the castle.... it's walls and towers, the gate she'd come through. It was manned by no one... by magic. It obscured her view of the sky, a monolith of black rock, and - it seemed - it contained it's own wind.

She stepped back through the cobbled gatehouse, and, yes; the wind swooped and whispered, swirling about her. Leaving once more, she was still in intense cold, but it was silent. She was unencumbered by buffeting; able to walk without leaning and losing her footing. She eyed the tower with suspicion. Where he _lurked_. His lair. Was the wind his temper, or one of his many guardians?

Then, a little spooked that he might see her, (he might even be out on the sloped roof), she hurried on. Were there owls about? Did they follow her? Watch her? Sighing, Belle thought, probably not. He was so put out... He might be happy to have the castle to himself.

People said that nothing grew around the Dark Castle. Everyone called it the Black Castle in the Wastelands, or the Deadlands. It wasn't true, though. The land was rocky... barren rock seemed to sprout up everywhere, in sporadic pathways of pebbles, or clusters that were almost as big as houses. But things grew. Long grasses grew in clumps, some with feathery seed-heads. Little flowers grew close to the ground... tiny, star-shaped flowers of pink and purple, huddled and alive even when so much was dormant. And mosses... they swept over the uneven land and climbed over rock.... in some place, rock colonized by moss had begun to grow fern.

To walk the land, it was really quite beautiful. Still, Belle could see why people reacted as they did. Especially to view it at a distance, such as from town, one saw an seemingly unending sweep of rocky, treeless land, the far horizon kissing the sky; and drawing the eye was a castle that seemed to absorb the light from the very air. To swallow it, negate it. It wasn't really a pretty castle. Not a palace. It was a fortress. He should call it the Dark Fortress.

She came to a hilly place that locals called Faerie Hills. Hollow Hills. Although Rumpelstiltskin had told her faeries were real, he'd also told her there were none in the hills. Perhaps spirits, for the hills were the burial mounds of ancient people, long grown over by the mosses and grasses of the hinterlands. Vaguely monumental arrangements of stone topped some of the hills, and Belle spied a little rabbit near one, munching on grass. He sucked in strands of grass like a person eating noodles, his ears moving this way and that, alert to predators. He seemed willing to risk her nearness in order to continue with his dinner.

She decided to climb one of the hills and investigate the stone arrangements. As she neared the hill, the wind became lively again. It stopped her; she looked around, wondering. She didn't know how to judge anything, anymore. When was it just wind, and when was it a warning, a message from Rumpelstiltskin? This is what came of living with magic, with a magical person, (taking him as a lover... he left his seed in you). This hesitation. This uncertainly regarding everything's nature and character.

"It's only wind", she said aloud, uncomfortably aware that it was a literal whistling in the graveyard. Her voice in the open, strange landscape seemed wrong. She shouldn't speak. No... she was just spooked. She'd walked this land with Rumpelstiltskin, traveled through it with him in a carriage, and they'd spoken. He'd spoken endlessly and sometimes at volume, as was sometimes his giddy nature. She hadn't felt eerie then... she hadn't felt that the land watched her.

Oh... Now she understood... The Deadlands. She was so slow to see the obvious at times, it was a shame. It was the Faerie Hills, the burial mounds. Villagers might have forgotten, or might never have known about the mounds.... the resting places of people from long ago. But the warnings, prohibitions, lingered on... In the form of Faeries and barren, rock-strewn, un-farmable land. No one would want to dig up what was, essentially, a graveyard. (Boneyard, Rumpelstiltskin would say).

It made sense that Rumpelstiltskin would make his home, here. Build his castle. He liked people to stay away... He'd lived so long, Belle wondered if he'd known the people buried here. Were they his people?

She reached the top of one of the hills... not an easy climb, it turned out. The hills looked gentle, but in the actual climb the hill had been more steep than it appeared, and the ground so uneven that Belle, with every step, was aware that the hill was man made. There might be solid earth piled upon the dead, or there might be chambers down there... hollow hills, as the locals said. She moved with care, not wanting to break open and fall into someone's burial chamber.

She thought she ought to not fear the dead. Their days of being able to hurt anyone were done. But still...

At the top of the hill, a loose arrangement of stones marked the periphery, none taller than her knee, so there was a feeling of a child's play fort. In the center, there was a long, stone slab. It was uneven and un-hewn beneath, grasses sprouting, bursting from it's shadows. But the top was almost polished, long and smooth, like a table.

... And someone had set the table.

Belle stared at the setting for some time, eeriness settling over her anew, and wondered if this altar-like arrangement was old or new. Did people pay homage of sorts, here? Or was this child's play... children using the stone as the table it suggested.

Far to her left the trees at the wood's edge, bare-topped, swayed in a rush of wind. Over thin, naked branches that implored, a ghost moon, a feather of moon hovered, though it was still day. Belle could see the silver-gold leaves of beech trees, parchment dry but still clinging to their branches, glimmer throughout the denuded, deciduous forest. Black and ivory, spindle branches.

She looked back to the stone and it's setting.... plates that were made of broad leaves, weighted down with little stones. (Food for the dead?) Cups that were porous, chalky stone, little depressions dug into them, or in some cases scalloped shells. Utensils of twig and... bone? Dried flowers of some sort were scattered; sand colored stems, sword-shaped leaves and a frilled blossom, the pink so faded it was nearly ivory.

Maybe this _was_ children at play, although the odd bone disturbed Belle. (Chicken?) Also, each leaf-plate held something she thought might be iron nails, going to rust. If food for the dead, it was strange food.

There was a feeding-of-the-dead custom in her land, though not amongst the nobility. (How she'd longed to feed her mother!) It was considered a folk custom, more tradition and ritual than spiritual belief, done at the darkening part of the year. But unlike this tableau, people made actual food. Especially sweets, and also offerings of fruit, apples being the winter staple. Whether altars of food were in the home or at the graveside, (or, for some reason, at a crossroads), it was understood, even by children, that it was symbolic. Perhaps spirits took nourishment, enjoyment, from the _essence_ of the food, if such a thing were possible. But really, it was the living remembering the dead. And, for the most part, it was a party. Bonfires, music, ghoulish costumes; said to frighten away the malevolent spirits. (Why would it not frighten _all_ of the spirits, Belle wondered. And why wouldn't the malevolent ones be _less_ likely to be frightened by ghouls?)

Whatever she was looking at appeared to be so much more primitive than the lavish feasts laid out in her homeland.... The fresh flowers and candles in colored glass. The colored icings and powdered sugar. It must be children playing at tea parties. In a graveyard, with chicken bones.

Belle walked around the table-stone, looking at the relics, then walked to the far side of the hill and viewed the land. Wasteland or not, truly, it was beautiful. It was a dark beauty, to be sure. And gloomy in winter light. But it was beautiful... rugged and spare, windblown, grasses that moved in the wind like waves in the ocean. As if an invisible something walked through the grasses, parting them.

The hills rolled and the rocks rose starkly, and the Dark Castle was the guardian over all of it.

She thought of her father's castle... to approach by carriage, there came a point on the road where there was a break in the trees, and in the distance two hills, lush with forest, could be seen. Between the two, in the further distance, was a third hill.. a mountain, with a spiraled, terraced landscaping going all the way up. The castle was at the top, the mountain's summit.

She'd once seen it this way when the sun was setting, and it was as if the castle-mountain, behind the two that were so dark, so dense with green, was on fire. The walls of the terracing, the pale stone of the castle, the towers and turrets and peaks, the walls and flags.... all of it blazed gold in the dying light, the western sky a torch of red and coral. It had stolen her breath, all the more to know that this was her home.

The Dark Castle and it's land couldn't be more different, and yet, it was _here_ she felt at home. She'd always been so agitated at home... restless, on the move, unless her nose was in a book. Something had happened to her here, (even before something had _happened_ to her). A slowing down, a contemplation. A new understanding that she wasn't at all sure of who she was... She wasn't as defined by her family as she'd thought.

She made her way back down the hill, and partway down, she heard owl-call. Not a snowy owl-call, but a barred owl. Who-who, who- _whooo._ A trill at the end of it's phrases, as Chloe sometimes added to her mews. One called somewhere in the very treeless nearby.... Where? Another called from the tree line. Belle spotted, then, the ghostly specter of a barn owl, in a long, low glide over the waving grasses. On the hunt, and -yes -the sun was beginning it's trek to the horizon, the ghost moon further up in the deepening sky.

The barn owl disappeared into the grasses, (was that where the barred was hiding?), and then let out a blood-curdling call; the haunting scream of it's kind, like a woman falling from a tower. Belle didn't fear the call; there had been a falcon master at her home, and he and his wife had also cared for injured owls, hawks... birds of prey. She'd loved to visit the mews, and she knew that while the call was frightful, it came from one of the gentler owls. Those sweet, slim owls with white, heart-shaped faces, who seemed to like living near people.

But the next call made her jump. It was so loud, it seemed to be right behind her. In fact, it came from the top of the hill she'd just descended. It was another barred, or maybe one of the first two. It's chunky form perched on one of the low, fort-stones, staring pointedly down at her through it's black eyes. Instead of it's 'who' call, it had let loose with a rambunctious, monkey call of sorts, and now it _grunted_ at her, ( _uh-uh-uh_ ), as it's throat feathers waggled.

Belle became suspicious.

Feeling an idiot, she said, "Rumpel, if you're in there, I'm on my way back."

The bird moved it's head from side to side, _eyeballing_ her, then lit off in silence. Yes, it flew towards the castle.

Sighing, Belle abandoned the table-hill and started back to her new home.

 


	11. Submissive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've hit the point where the smut never really stops... It's a wonder enough plot made it's way into this story to keep things moving. I have no idea how it happened! Just another little warning for any who are faint of heart or squeamish about little, green men. Writing this story has been an exorcism of Rumpel-Porn for me. :)

"Enjoy your jaunt, dearie? Your airing? Your constitutional?"

He'd been waiting in the outer gatehouse, wrapped up in his dark cloak. He put his arm around her when she came through, and she noted that the courtyard wind had died down. She hoped it was a good sign.

It wasn't until they were in the sitting room that he questioned her. His voice, his manner still seemed a bit prickly to Belle. Instead of answering him, she asked, " _Were_ you in the owl?"

"Indeed. Clever of you to send word that way, dearie."

Belle's shoulders slumped a bit, and she said, "You needn't _watch_ me."

"Keeping secrets, are we? he waggled his fingers at her. "Eh? Eh?"

"No. There aren't any to keep. But a little privacy would be nice, Rumpel. You've read my journal, you've fetched me with owls - who, apparently - knew right where I was. Do you have eyes on me when I'm at the chamber pot?"

"Well, ah..." he cast his eyes about.

"Don't say it," Belle moaned, horrified. "Is it jealousy? Do you not want even the _land_ to have me to itself? Or are you really so suspicious... _of me!..._ that you think I'd work against you in some way? Betray you in some way!

Well, good, she thought. Maybe the walk had cleared her head, after all. She seemed more herself. She only wanted to fall down and beg forgiveness _a little_.

Rumpelstiltskin came to where she sat, bolt upright, and stood behind her. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he said, "I _missed_ you, dearie."

Belle's heart gave a squeeze, but she'd begun to have her own suspicions. Sometimes his manipulations were a little transparent. She didn't reply, trying to work out how she felt, and he leaned down, placing little kisses along her neck... near her ear.

At her ear, he repeated, in a hot whisper, "I _missed_ you."

Belle's eyes closed, her body responding to him at once. Lord... was _this_ manipulation? Her head lolled to one side, allowing him to better kiss her neck, her jaw. His hands moved from her shoulders to her breasts and squeezed, and Belle moaned. Why? Why did it always feel like such a _relief_ when he touched her?

Forcing her eyes open, she said, "But what about the writing? You were so angry."

Squeeze... warmth from his hands. "I'm bothered, dearie. I'm trying to work it out."

"But it's _my_ journal. I'd like it back, Rumpel."

He'd undone the laces of her bodice and his hand slipped under her shift. His warm hand on her breast; squeezing, fondling. His tongue licked up her neck, his teeth bit her jaw lightly, and he... _growled_. The hand not marauding about her breast moved to her neck, her throat, and closed around it. Something in Belle _shifted_. She changed, in only a split second. The extent to which she belonged to him was written on her cells, and she thought perhaps the writing had been there, always.

His hand on her neck didn't squeeze or hurt, it didn't rob her of air. It was simply _there_ , warm and capturing, holding her in place as his other hand explored her. Belle's breath came hard, her legs parted.

"I'll give it back, dearie. But I need to study those pages for a bit. Your 'nonsense' writing has led me down a peculiar path of research and magic. I think you're witchier than you let on."

"I hide nothing from you." she gasped. It angered her, a little, that he could doubt her.

"Witchier than you realize, then."

He'd reached all the way down the front of her dress, nimble fingers wriggling beneath the waist of her drawers. He rubbed one finger, slick with her wetness, around her aching bud. He had a word for it... He murmured, "Poor little clit," which sounded dirty to Belle, though she didn't know the word.

Her hips angled forward, wanting to allow his hand access. She sighed, as overcome by his hand on her neck as she was by his hand between her legs. She leaned her head back, resting on the back of the chair, and he brought his mouth down on hers.

... Wet tongue, wicked lips....

His hand moved from her sex to her abdomen, warm as it rested there, open palmed, splay-fingered. His other hand stayed at her neck, and his tongue teased her, Played with her. He flicked the tip of it over her lips, against the tip of her tongue. Belle fought to keep her hips still. Her bodice was open, her dress undone to the navel, one breast exposed. How was she always in a state of undress while he was fully clothed?

His hand came away from her neck, leaving Belle puzzled as to why she felt so bereft for it's absence. Still playing with her with his tongue, he used both hands to capture her nipples in his fingers. He pinched hard, making her squeak and rise briefly in her seat. She felt him smile around his serpentine tongue.

_"Why?"_ she moaned... whined, a bit.

"Why what, lovey?"

She still felt the smile; he pinched her again, rolling her nipples in a gentle way, before cupping her breasts.

"Why do you doubt me? Yell at me, and then... _this?"_

"I'm a paranoid, power hungry, secretive and evil monster, dearie. Also.... _horny."_

Damn it, Belle thought. He was likely telling the truth. She should slap him, instead of... allowing him.

"Do you want me to stop... _this_?" He squeezed her breasts; pushed them high up her chest, like a corset, them let them loose to watch them bounce. _Evil_ , Belle thought.

"I don't think so..." she gasped."

"Mmmm.." He moved one hand back to her neck, the other in a warm slide from her chest to her lower belly, fingers grazing her pubic hair. He kissed Belle again, her head still laid back on the chair, and tightened his hold on her throat just a little.

She'd already changed so much... she felt frightened of the new feeling she was having. Her desire for him to hold her this way felt like a dangerous loss of self... she would soon disappear. Belle would be gone, and there would only be Rumpelstiltskin and a ghost.

"I love you." she whispered. It had been such a full, visceral thing inside of her, building for such a long while; but she didn't know why the words came out, now.

His hand slid lower, middle finger sliding in wetness as she exhaled against his mouth.

"You _want_ me," he said, quietly. "a mystery in and of itself, dearie. You don't love me. Nor should you."

Her eyes opened, staring at him in her upside-down position. It was disorienting. She swallowed, feeling it against the hold of his hand.

"But I do." she said.

Did he not love her? She realized she'd just assumed he did... she'd assumed that's what such closeness, intimacy meant. Ignorance? Arrogance?

His fingers made a rapid, wet, back and forth thrumming on her overly sensitized bud, and she squirmed, caught in his odd stare.

"That's it, dearie. " he said, as her hips moved... she was making a puddle. " _This_ is what you love. You love _cock_ , fucking. I just happened to make my deal with you at the right time. Lucky me."

Belle's whole body flinched, jerking away from him. He let go of his hold on her neck, and she stood, whirling to face him. She was speechless, however. She simply stood there, looking at him with a feeling of disbelief. Unreality. There she was, again, half-naked... while he stood, hands on the back of the chair, composed; leather or dragon-hide or some such covering him completely. The stupid collar came up behind his head like wings.

"Upset, dearie?"

She pulled her dress together, uncertain of everything, and he said, "It's a little late for that, don't you think? I've seen every bit of you... " His eyes moved low on her body, and he added, "Every pink, wet fold... every.... welcoming.... hole."

Bloody hell.

"You're still angry, "Belle stammered. "But I don't know _why."_

Making a complete mockery of a sad, frowning, paternal figure, he said, "I'm not angry, Belle. Only.... disappointed."

"Why?"

_"Why_? Well, it's just one of my finer qualities, dearie. Like secretiveness, manipulation, possessiveness, sadism, _evil_." He nearly shouted the last word. He barked it at her.

He turned away from Belle for a moment, and when he turned back he was smiling in a mad way. Mad, like crazy. Moving his hands about, he sang," If you want to leave the castle, dearie, take me along with you. It's not _safe_... out in the hinterland. There are _things_..." smile, "that are not _nice_ ," smile, flourish. " _Things_ that might like to gobble up one such as yourself, dearie."

"Only rabbits and owls." Belle said.

"You can't always _see_ danger. And _you_ ," he was suddenly right in front of her... had he gone _through_ the chair?? He pressed his forefinger to her chest. " _You_ can't see danger when it's right in front of you, dearie. Not even when you live with it and eat with it and _fuck_ it."

Belle couldn't stand it. She couldn't _stand_ it.... The division, the meanness. She had to make it end. She threw her arms around him, not caring that her dress fell open. She knew he was all wrong, and didn't care. Pressed to him, she whispered, "I'm sorry... I'm sorry."

He just stood there, not returning her embrace, and Belle thought she would break into sobs if she couldn't fix things... make them good again. At his ear she breathed, "Punish me, Rumpel. Spank me. Use your belt."

His arms came around her, then, and rocked her to and fro. Stroking her back, he said, "I'm a bad man, Belle. A stupid, bad man. There's no need for punishment."

"But you'll feel better..." she said.

"I don't want to hurt you." he murmured. "I don't like to see you cry. I just.... I lost control. Over nothing. Pettiness. Just... Really, Belle, I don't want you going out without me. And after your writing... it's too much. You're very... _open_ , dearie. It makes you vulnerable."

Belle held onto him, so relieved for the abrupt turn that she was shaking. Why did the writing matter? And how was she _open?_

"There, there." he said, still stroking her back.

When the shaking subsided, she said, "I do love you, Rumpel."

"I know you do, dearie."

"You do?" She looked up at him. Looking down at her, somber eyed, he palmed her breast. Belle had forgotten her near nakedness.

"You believe me?" she asked. She placed her hand over his.

With a faint smile, he said, "As much as a monster can."

"Do you... feel the same?"

He didn't answer for so long, Belle thought she might collapse. She became a statue; an unexpected, somewhat weird, half-nude statue, holding a man's hand to her breast. Still. She made herself refrain from prodding, from saying, " _Well_? Rumpel?"

He had gone still as well, except for his thumb, caressing circles at the side of her breast. Trying to sound like she wasn't dying, Belle said, "I should get you some sort of round, soft squeezy toy."

He smiled at that, giving a little squeeze, and said, "I imagine it would help with anger management. You calmed me quite well, pressing those lovelies up against me, dearie. More of your witchery, no doubt."

"Hmm."

He closed his eyes, then opened them, meeting hers. He said, "I love you Belle. More than life. More than breath."

A little sob escaped her, though she smiled; her knees went weak, and Rumpelstiltskin had to hold her up.

"Truly?"

" _Twuly_. _Twue_ enough to break curses, which could become an issue. It doesn't change that I'm a bad man, dearie. The Dark One. Evil... so forth and et cetera; you understand. I didn't want to speak of love, because... you should not be tied to me, Belle."

"But I am... by my feelings, by our contract. I _want_ to be... I've made my choice."

"That much is clear." he said, eyeing her nakedness. With a grin, he asked, "Do you still want that spanking, dearie?" When Belle looked uncertain, he burst into gleeful giggles.

"Fetch my riding crop, missie! Bare your heart shaped arse and... _bend over_!" another giggle.

Belle gave a droll look, crossing her arms over her breasts. Rumpelstiltskin pouted. "Maybe," she said, the corner of her mouth beginning to curl, " _You're_ the one who needs a spanking."

"Er.."

Belle smiled broadly, amused, and a little excited by the image that came to mind. "You said, yourself; you're bad. A _bad_ man. Bad men need to be punished." she was almost speaking in his sing-song.

"Are you serious, dearie?" Rumpelstiltskin smiled at her, but Belle thought he looked a little nervous. Was this revenge? It made her feel ticklish.

Using her fingers, as he so often did, she ticked off his self-accusations. "Bad, paranoid, secretive, power hungry, sadistic.."

"Yes, alright. I suppose it all trumps your sins of writing and leaving the castle."

"Indeed." Belle intoned, evoking his voice and manner.

"Stop that."

She giggled her own giggle, blushing behind her hand. Though self conscious of her nudity, she framed her arms artfully in the air, letting her breasts jiggle as they may. She said, "Fetch me my wooden spoon, dearie! Bare your pert yet manly arse, and... _bend over!"_

"...Oh..." Rumpelstiltskin staggered, hand on his heart. "That was _good._ It's so much better with breasts. It's a wonder I'm credible at all without them."

Belle grinned, covering hers again. She tapped her foot on the floor and said, "Well...?"

"Well, what?"

"The spoon, the arse, the bend. Get cracking. So to speak." The last part made her burst into laughter, the pun hitting her belatedly.

"I've been a _terrible_ influence on you, dearie."

"Don't I know it." Belle smiled happily.

Giving her a curious look, he asked, "Do you really want to do that, love?"

"Oh," Belle shrugged, "I don't know. I'm just playing with you."

"Well... I _have_ been bad."

One of those shivers went through Belle. Smiling, Rumpelstiltskin said, "Oh, dearie dear. You should have _seen_ how your nipples sprang to attention."

Belle blushed, trying to arrange her dress a little better, and he said, "And now she blushes. Really, dearie. You'd make a terrible liar. I don't know what possessed me to ever suspect you of anything."

"Try and remember that, would you."

"Noted. I've also noted your reactions to my question, and I think you want to do it."

Nonplussed, Belle said, "I begin to think _you want_ me to do it."

"Mmmmmmmaybe."

Belle felt conflicted. This was intriguing... the idea that Rumpelstiltskin would want her to... _spank_ him? Could she keep a straight face? But her throat, her neck still felt his earlier hold on her... how she'd shifted inside; she'd known she belonged to him. She felt as if she were in the wrong role, and didn't know the lines. A switch-up feeling that felt vaguely unsafe; a world topsy-turvy.

Rumpelstiltskin sat down in a tapestry covered chair, and Belle, feeling her way through the twists and turns of the day, of the _moment_ , sashayed her body to swish her skirts as she approached. She eyed him in a shy flirtation, and he held his hand out to her. Taking it, she found herself twirled and plopped onto his lap.

"At last, dearie." he said.

"It's been a weird day."

"Aye. Weird."

"You came after me as an owl."

"Indeed."

"I saw a table setting on top of one of the mounds."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. Maybe made by children? There were leaves and stones for plates and cups. There were _bones_. And, I think, nails."

"Oh. Well."

"It's pretty out there, Rumpel."

"Mm. Do you think so?" He played with her hands as they spoke, then brought his attention back to her dress, her bodice.

"I mean it, about the squeezy toy."

He huffed a little through his nose. "I'm keeping calm.... Distracting myself from thoughts of you wandering the Deadlands, stumbling across altars of bone and iron."

"Altars?"

With a shrug, he said, "Very likely."

"Altars to what?"

Another shrug, a frown. "Who knows? This is a strange land with strange magic. It helped me to build this castle."

Belle regarded him... was he messing with her? "The land helped you to build it?"

"Mm hm." He let off toying with her clothes and kissed her. "About that spanking," he murmured against her lips. Belle gave a muffled laugh against his.

"I won't be able to _hit_ you, Rumpel. Like a naughty schoolboy. Why do you want me to?"

Looking at her in a dreamy way, he said, "It's not really the blow, dearie, though a bit of a slap might be... interesting. I'd like to feel your touch.... all over."

"... all over..." Belle felt herself warm.

"Yes. As I touch you."

"Oh..."

Feeling her warmth, the change inside of her, Rumpelstiltskin slid his hand under her skirt, up the loose leg of her bloomers, and played with her. "Do you like that, love?" he murmured.

Belle sighed, leaning against him, opening for him. "Yes."

"Do you want my finger inside you?"

She whimpered, tilting her hips, encouraging. "Yes."

"... God, you're so wet, love. So slippery-wet. Is that nice?"

Sucking in her breath, Belle flexed her abdomen, her hips, instantly drunk on the friction he caused, the penetration. His thumb toyed with the hot, little bud, making her blood sing. Rumpelstiltskin cooed in her ear, cradling her.

"I love touching you." he said. "I love making you so wet, so hot... Do you love it, dearie?"

She gasped out a _yes_ , and he purred. He began a rhythm, jostling her in his lap, and soon his purr was a growl. He watched her face, hand thrusting, and said, "Come for me, love... Scream fo me. I want your pussy to _gush_."

Belle's eyes flew open in a panic. Oh, no... not that...

"No... wait..." She struggled a bit in his lap.

"What is it, love?"

Blushing furiously, Belle said, "It's just so _rude_. And messy. It embarrasses me."

With pursed lips, he made a soothing little show of _tsk-tsking_ her, his hand resting on her thigh. "Don't deny yourself pleasure, dearie." he said, quiet and seductive. "That's the sort of rudeness I can get behind."

Wrinkling her nose, Belle asked, "Why do you like it?"

Playing with her again, fingers lightly teasing, he said, "I like to make you come... to be the _instrument_ of your desire."

"I mean the..."

"Gushing? Flooding? Squirting?" _Leer._

Belle wrinkled her nose again. " _Eww."_

"You're getting prissy on me _now_ , dearie?" he chuckled. "It's just very exciting... arousing. It's like your blushes and your naughty nipples.... The things you can't control. The darkening of your eyes, and the way your lips swell.... When I see that, I know your _other_ lips have swollen," (fondle), "and that little clit that gives you so much trouble. Ah, more blushes, even as we speak. These things... they excite me, so, Belle. They show me the effect I'm having on you.

"Don't you like when you see that you've had those sort of effects on me?"

He brushed his lips against hers, and Belle caught her breath.

"... Yes...."

"Mmm... It makes you even wetter, doesn't it? When you see how hard you make my cock... when you see me, helpless to your touch... your mouth...."

Belle moaned against him, his tongue teasing hers. She felt his smile again, and he pulled back to look at her. "When you see my pert but manly arse..."

That made her smile. "Well, it's just so _cute_."

"The Dark One is not _cute_."

"His bum is. I want to bite it."

Rumpelstiltskin made his wide-eyed, scandalized face. "Manners, dearie!"

Belle laughed, and Rumpelstiltskin said, "Perhaps it is you who needs the spanking, after all."

"For... bum biting?"

"Indeed."

"Well..." Belle, suddenly bold, reached under her skirt and directed his fingers to touch her more directly. She watched his lips part, a spark light in his eyes. She felt him warm as she directed him, and the topsy-turvy, upside down feeling happened again. "You've bitten me," she said, breathy, "in a _number_ of places."

".... Yes.... But I'm a monster. It's what we do." He gnashed his teeth at her, playfully. Belle squealed, but the squeak was lost in her breath... She isolated his middle finger, guiding it inside of her. He kept his thrust very slow, his other fingers in a tantalizing tease against her labia, her vulva.

Overcome, she slumped down in his lap, her head resting on his arm. She brought her feet to the arm of the chair, opposite, knees gaping wide apart. her skirts fell back, her drawers unceremoniously pushed aside as Rumpelstiltskin worked her. Yes, Belle thought... It was rude. It was _so_ rude, even primitive... a pose resembling a position for childbirth, but in her present state it bespoke greed. It seemed it was her new mission to violate every lesson she'd ever leaned as to how to be ladylike. _This_ was certainly a violation. Her hand stayed on his, until he said, "Work your clit, love."

_Clit_. That odd word. Belle wasn't sure why it struck her as so dirty, unless it was putting her in mind of cunt. Whatever the case, her _clit_ throbbed at the suggestion, and she obeyed. She watched Rumpelstiltskin... how soft-lipped and undone he looked.... his eyes glued to his own hand and to hers, as they created a rhythm.

"Yes.." he breathed.

Belle thought of how she felt when she saw him touch, stroke himself, and her pelvis felt a little spasm. Maybe he felt that way, watching her. Closing her eyes, the image of him came to mind... his eyes closed, mouth open.... the way one hand moved over his face, his chest; the other in long, sensual strokes over his swollen cock. The way he stroked it... when he was feeding it into her mouth...

She moaned aloud, and felt Rumpelstiltskin's breathing become heavier, more labored.

"You're getting so tight, dearie.... tighter.... _tighter_..."

Belle couldn't breathe... she felt like a vice around Rumpelstiltskin's fingers. Her muscles had slowed his thrusts, and yet everything... every slight movement of his hand, the lightest brush of his fingers... it all felt so exquisite... such a delicate, elusive quality of pain, weaving itself - like a spell - into a rush of pleasure.

Her cries rose in a sort of panic, and in spite of the clench of her muscles, Rumpelstiltskin started thrusting so hard, so fast. He was practically shouting, though Belle felt as though she could barely hear for the sound of her own, roaring blood. He shouted _yes!_ and begged her to come for him. He begged her to 'let go', and show how she needed him.

He leaned down, only a shadow against Belle's squeezed-shut eyes, and flickered his tongue over her lips. Belle's whole body bucked, breath she'd unknowingly held coming out in a rush and a cry; and then her muscles finally _let go_ , as Rumpelstiltskin had asked of her. It was in a distant way that she felt her body squeeze his fingers out and _gush_. What she truly felt was the gripping hold that pleasure had on her... contracting her muscles, firing her nerve-endings, filling her with light.

She was a rag-doll when the room came back. A soft, supple, pliable, whimpering rag-doll. Rumpelstiltskin knew it, and he did things, _said_ things to her that she thought she shouldn't like. That she should protest. But her body, those involuntary responses that he loved, told another story, and left her confused.

She felt Rumpelstiltskin magic away her clothes; his too, impatient now. She felt, with great relief, his bare skin against hers, hot and comforting. She opened her eyes slowly to see him, expecting his face to be soft, loving. The post-sex puppy that he could be. It wasn't the case... The lights were too bright, his eyes blazed, all predator; but his face was in calm repose.

In her limp, docile state, he stood up, holding her in his arms, then maneuvered her down to her hands and knees. His body crouched over hers, and for a time Belle reveled in the feeling of his heavy cock, his soft pubic hair, brushing against her backside, her sex. There was an animal feeling to it, and Belle found herself shifting with the feeling, as she had when he held her neck.

He kissed and nuzzled and sniffed about her neck, the side of her face. He murmured that she was his; his _fuckdoll_. Hand between her shoulder blades, he gently pressed her head to the floor and folded over her back... His hands moved beneath her; stroking, squeezing. He played with her bud, _clit_ , which made her yelp. He brought his hand to her neck, holding her firm, telling her - again - that she was his.... Her pussy was his, her mouth, her _come_... all his.

"Do you want my cock, dearie?" he asked, close and nuzzling at her ear.

"...Yes..."

" _Beg me_. Beg me to put it in your pussy. To fuck you. Tell me you need it in your wet pussy, dearie."

Belle didn't think she could get the words out. Anything she said to comply would not be untrue, but it was difficult. Her body understood it's wants, it's needs... but her mind was uncertain. The actions came easier than the words.

"It's hard to say, is it, love?"

Belle nodded, the floor cold against her hot face. Hand stroking her neck, he kissed the side of her face. His kisses were sweet... feathery, baby kisses at her cheek, the corner of her mouth, her forehead. But he whispered, "You're not getting my cock until you beg for it, love."

Her eyelashes fluttered, and she said, "I think, later, I _will_ spank you."

With a soft chuckle, he said, "Then I will look forward to that. But it doesn't change your current predicament, dearie. Whatever will you do?"

Softly, Belle said, "Please..."

"What a polite girl. Please _what_ , love?"

"... please..." Belle closed her eyes. Why was this so hard? Why did he want it so much? If it was what she wanted, why did she bristle, feeling it was beneath her dignity to speak it?

She thought of all she'd just done in the chair... Dignity? Hmm.

He still gave her little kisses, hands slowly stroking everywhere but her sex. She tilted her hips back, feeling the tease of his cock, but so achingly empty... _open_. (Vulnerable, he'd said)

It was because of the Curse, she decided. His need to always appear powerful as he hid away his fears, insecurities. He could never believe how she wanted him... he always wanted proof, evidence. He loathed his own reflection in a way Belle had never had to consider in her own life. She felt his fingers trail lightly down her spine, then curve, still whisper-light, over her bottom, down the backs of her thighs. His fingers grazed... her _other_ opening, giving her pause, and along her sex. Belle rolled her forehead on the floor, in an anguish of desire and exposure. Her hips did not merely flex; they _rolled_. She was grinding on air, sensitive to Rumpelstiltskin's slightest motion.

Raising her head, she looked over her shoulder. His face was dark, just above her, and his body skimmed hers, in a grind very like her own. Meeting his shadowed, hooded eyes, she whispered, "Please, Rumple... fuck me. Fuck my pussy... I need your cock so much... I'll _die_ without you inside me."

His eyes closed and his body went still, his forehead furrowed, as if in concentration. He's close to coming, Belle thought... just from the _words_.

"Good girl," he breathed. "You're my sweet girl, Belle. My sweet girl."

Just then, it was all she wanted to be.

He kissed her face, her shoulder, and then Belle felt him slide inside of her. She lost her breath for a moment... it felt so different this way... He was such a warm and shadowy, mysterious, _animal_ presence, the skin of her back and legs alert to him. Her body _took_ him differently... it felt strange for a moment, and then.... so good. She was so filled with him.

He stayed mostly still, hands splayed at her hips. He moved to kneeling, upright behind her, and began to thrust slowly. He's watching himself, Belle thought. _He's watching his cock move in and out of me._ He touched the fullness of her labia around his cock, making her tremble; and he touched that _other_ place... her other opening, making her _aware_. God... he wanted to see everything...

When he started pumping fast, his breath almost a grunt, Belle realized she was being stimulated by his _balls_. They bounced against her, nudging her bud as he thrust and thrust. He gripped her hips, hard, pulling her to him as he fucked her, and Belle's arms splayed out before her, weak with desire. She felt surrendered... she gave herself over to Rumpelstiltskin, allowing him to use her as he saw fit.

Soon she was crying out, uncertain if she could take anymore... she would go mad.

"Please!" she cried. "Rumpel!"

He made an agonized sound.... She hadn't heard him sound like that, and it distracted her completely from the climax that was claiming her. She went still, simply hanging on as he volleyed a series of thrusts into her, his body going flush to hers, where they connected. Then she felt him tense. She felt his legs shake, and the throbbing, the _expansion_ of his cock as he emptied into her.

When his crisis subsided, he all but fell on her. They lay in a heap on the floor, and Rumpelstiltskin kissed all over her face, her hands. Belle couldn't care less about her thwarted climax... she felt swollen, sore... sated. She wrapped her arms around him, amused to hear that his breathing was very close to sleep.

　

　

 


	12. Dominant?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another warning for the squeamish: Menstrual porn and some boundary pushing.

Rumpelstiltskin said, "Sweetheart, I think your time has arrived."

It was an odd thing to say, Belle thought. They had been kissing, touching... she was lost in the bliss of it. She lay next to him in her bed, one leg thrown over his hip, and their mouths nuzzled and suckled as their hands worked one another. Belle loved the feel of his cock in her hand... it's heat, it's responsive little jump when she ran her thumb up the prominent vein on it's underside... gently touching the cleft.

... And then he'd said her time had arrived. It could be argued that "come" and "arrive" were in the same family, but as aroused and euphoric as she was, it wasn't quite _that_. It was a heavy, dreamy, even peaceful lust that simmered beneath her skin. She wanted to keep kissing and touching, forever.... tasting and scenting Rumpelstiltskin. She was never so content as when he was completely naked, warm and present and accessible. This was sometimes the Rumpel she woke to.

Opening her eyes, she asked, "What do you mean?"

He brought his hand into her line of sight; it was shining with her dewy, slick wetness, but also tinged pink. And at his fingertips, red.

Oh no, she thought, mortified... she'd forgotten all about that.

"It _is_ your time, isn't it?" Rumpelstiltskin asked. "I've not done you an injury..."

No... the signs were all there. She'd simply ignored them, thinking they were part of her heightened arousal. Her breasts were sensitive and a little swollen, tender... her sex as well. There was an ache in her lower belly. It was strange how all of these things, so long associated with a cumbersome and sometimes painful time, were now things she associated with Rumpelstiltskin's handling of her. It seemed further proof that her pleasure was also made up of a measure of pain.

"You haven't hurt me." she said. She sat up, and said, "I'd better go see to this."

Rumpelstiltskin made a soft, petulant, little whine. Belle looked back at him. How strange to think, _my lover_. He lay back on the pillow, his shiny and bloodied hand curled on his chest. Oh, that bottom lip. The blood had not troubled his cock... Belle sometimes felt it had it's own consciousness, for it _sought_ her. It was stretched, in it's manner, on his belly; but had angled itself to Rumpelstiltskin's hip, closest to her. She knew that if she moved to his other side, the cock would migrate. It followed her, devoted.

"I don't want to get blood all over." she said, in answer to his pout.

His un-bloodied hand pet her hip, and he said, "Don't get up just yet, dearie. The bleeding isn't heavy right now... You're more arousal than blood."

Belle raised her eyebrow at him, and he smiled.

"Lay down." he said, softly.

He made her shiver, so. She lay down, and he coaxed her back in place, her leg thrown over him. "Doesn't it bother you?" she asked.

He brought his hand to his face, sniffing it, then sucked his fingers.

"Runpel!" Belle was genuinely shocked. There were deep-rooted taboos related to any blood... but _this_ blood, especially.

Sniggering a little, he said, "No, dearie, it doesn't trouble me. It's very powerful, you know."

"Powerful?"

"Magically. 'Moon blood', it's called in spells. Faeries _hate_ it." His smile was weirdly malicious.

Puzzled, Belle asked, "What have you got against Faeries?"

"What haven't I got against them?" he said. His look was still so preoccupied with darkness, Belle let it go, saying, "Hm."

She watched him lick his fingers clean, like a cat licking it's paw. His eyes were closed, and sounds of "ummm" were in his chest and throat. Unable to help it, Belle said, "...Ewwww.."

He smiled, but didn't open his eyes. Sniffing at the cleaned hand, he lowered his other hand to his cock and stroked a few times. Belle felt her insides flip-flop, fearing her arousal, her wetness would lead to more blood.

With a little growl, Rumpelstiltskin relinquished his hold on his cock and rolled to his side, embracing her, cuddling to her and childlike.

"You made me so..... _horny_ , dearie." He purred, pushing his head against her shoulder.

Laughing, Belle said, "You're weird."

"Don't I know it." he said, in a fair mimicry of her.

Belle was surprised at how cuddlesome he was. He'd become a sort of snuffling, attention seeking little animal. He crawled on top of her, kissing, petting.... and constantly _scenting_ , his nose tickling against her neck, her face and breasts. More than once, he murmured, "You smell so _good_..." He licked her, and bit lightly.

Hanging onto him, simply moving with all of his climbing about, Belle said, "You're not going to eat me up, are you?"

"Mmm.. Maybe, yes, dearie. I may not be able to resist."

He scooped up her legs, arms strong beneath her knees. He seemed extra invigorated. He pushed her knees up against her chest... Belle was quite caught up in being maneuvered all about, as if she was his little, weightless plaything, but in this new position she could only think; _blood_. The mess of it. The embarrassment, once more brought on by one of her body's functions. It has always been so private.

He sat back on his heels, his hands on the backs of her thighs, keeping her knees anchored at her chest. He stared at her sex in a hungry way, and the wetness Belle felt made her uneasy. She felt too open... an unsettling vulnerability.

"Rumpel, don't." she said.

His eyes flickered up to meet hers, and he said, "I _like_ to _look_ at it, dearie."

Belle squirmed a bit. In her current position she knew he looked; yes, he looked at everything. Since the night of her writing, she'd come to know that he liked that, though it hadn't lost it's ability to embarrass her.

"Really... I don't want to bleed everywhere."

His eyes moved to her sex, and he said, "It's not even coming out of you, love. I had my fingers deep inside you when I got bloodied."

On his knees, holding her that way, he slid his cock inside her.

"Oh....!" Belle was shocked. It felt _agonizingly_ good... yet the mood was strange. There something mechanical about it, Rumpelstiltskin was so watchful. So drunk on scent.

His teeth seemed on edge, and he moved so slowly. Long, slow strokes... he brought his cock all the way out of her, the head sending a thrill through her as it nudged her entrance, tissues so sensitive. Then he slid all the way back inside, so deep in this position... and Belle felt the slide of his slick, veined flesh for every, slow, delirious inch.

She couldn't stop watching him. His parted lips, the ember-flush high on his cheekbones. His breathing was slow and heavy, his movements do deliberate. He only sometimes met her eyes; the lust in his was a wildness. Mostly, he stared fixedly at where they connected.

The only sounds in the room were the slow creak of the bed, like a ship in the ocean, and their breathing.

Rumpelstiltskin gasped and closed his eyes, his hands tightening on the backs of Belle's thighs. He was pressed close to her, his body tense and still, and Belle began to realize... _he's coming..._

It was so different. She had become used to the quickening of pace, of breath. Rumpelstiltskin often spoke, his breathy 'yes!' and 'fuck!' She, herself, while very aroused, her senses heightened, was nowhere near that point. As she'd been since waking to Rumpelstiltskin's touch, she felt both dreamy and watchful; curious, warm and alive to feeling.

In her quiet sensitivity, she could feel his cock, pulsing inside her as he emptied. (gushed) She felt the muscles in his abdomen tense and release, and watched the oddly slow rise and fall of his chest.

Finally, he opened his eyes and looked at her. His eyes seemed darker to Belle... the crystal-shot amber was more of a deep brown, still lit, as though run through with strands of quartz.

"I think I've always wanted you." she said, still in the net of dreaminess.

He tilted his head, hands making a warm, soft, sliding caress, up and down her legs.

"How so, dearie?" He was so quiet.

Belle's hand stroked over her lower belly, aware that he stayed inside her. The ache, there, was taking on a wistful quality.

"I think I've always dreamt of you, Rumpel. Foolish, girlish dreams... romantic, I suppose. At least in my eyes. I never wanted what I _knew_. I never got silly over warriors and princes. I always thought of someone strange to me, alien to me. And I thought of magic. I thought of a man who came to me as an animal."

Rumpelstiltskin lifted his lip and gave her a snarl, watching her.

Smiling, Belle said, "Yes... I thought of it that way... being _taken_ , with animal lust."

"Bloodlust". Rumpelstiltskin said, glancing down to where he was flush to her.

"If you like, yes. But it was the magic, the transformation, that I was attracted to. I dreamed of a man who came to me in a bird or animal form, and that form was my guardian, my protector. He transformed to a man to... love me. And I always imagined strange eyes."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. I don't know that I quite saw your eyes in my little dreams, but I imagined something very different from my own eyes.... from anyone around me. And the silliest, most girlish part.. I always imagined that this magical man would know me better than anyone. And then you turned up."

"You called me, my love."

Belle smiled. "I had no idea who or what I called. I'd only read of an obscure, name-calling ritual in an old book, and I thought I should at least try..."

"Ah... More clues as to your witchery."

"Do you think?" Belle asked, playful.

"More and more, dearie."

"But," Belle blushed, and then said, "It _does_ seem like you know me better than anyone else."

Rumpelstiltskin leaned down and kissed the inside of one knee. It shifted how he was settled inside of her... Belle shifted with it, realizing that he was still hard....

"I'm certain I've come to know parts of you better than anyone in this world could even imagine." he smiled. "But you're still mysterious to me, dearie. Maybe the difference is how much I _want_ to know you. I pay attention."

"Yes." Belle agreed, knowing the truth of it when he said it. She gazed up at him, feeling embarrassingly lovey-dovey. ( _Miss Lovey-Dovey_ , he'd once called her, rather mockingly, as she fed crumbs to the birds and then, spontaneous in the cold, she'd run into his arms.)

Then she tilted her head, not realizing that she aped his inquiring posture. "Are you still hard, Rumpel?"

With a groan, he pulled slowly out of her and sat back on his heels.

"I think I've a wee problem, dearie."

Gasping, Belle said, "Not entirely 'wee'."

She sat up, cross-legged and now heedless of her bleeding, though she was ill at ease, a little nauseous, to see blood streaked over Rumpelstiltskin's cock; smeared over his belly and thighs, his balls.

"Didn't... didn't you come?"

He nodded.

"Did it get... _bigger_?"

"It _feels_ like it did." he said, and his face was comically torn between concern and pride. Bum perched on heels and knees apart, pelvis thrust out, he was all cock. The randy thing stood straight up, high to his belly, curving towards his body. It was so full, Belle thought, the head making a bigger mushroom cap than she remembered. The vein rippling down it's underside looked engorged and tormented, and continued to appear so on it's path down and under his balls. _His balls_. Belle thought they looked uncomfortably bigger as well.

"Good lord." she said.

Huffing a soft laugh, Rumpelstiltskin said, "I'm rather impressed, myself.... But I don't think I can go about my daily life in this state."

"Not in leather pants, you can't."

"Astute, dearie. Hmm. I think this must have something to do with your blood."

"... Oh... Why?"

"Not sure, love." he stared down at himself, watching with Belle as the needy column jumped with his heartbeat. Belle thought he looked like a fertility idol she'd seen in a book. A little, much eroded statuette of a happy, dwarfish man whose genitalia was so huge and engorged, he carried it before him in a wheelbarrow. So, clearly, an agricultural society...

"Does it hurt? she asked.

He looked up at her. It was true, Belle thought; it was hard to look away from it. He shook his head, no. "I've never been intimate with a woman when she bled... in this _form_ , Belle."

He had, then, as a man?

"Perhaps this sort of blood is a powerful... aphrodisiac to the Dark One. Certainly my bloodlust increased with the Curse, but for all of this time, I've only known it as violence. Anger. This may be another aspect." Sheepish, he added, "Look what you've done to me, dearie."

Feeling uncertain as to whether she should feel guilty or pleased, Belle said, "I'm sorry?"

"Don't be absurd."

Sighing, Belle reached out and stroked the bloodied thing, softly trailing the backs of her fingers along the anguished looking vein. Rumpelstiltskin caught his breath, and she met his eyes. "Is that alright? Is it nice?"

"Gods, yes..." he whispered.

Her hand moved to his balls, gently cupping them, and it brought a moan to his lips. The skin was so different, there. Soft, yet rather wrinkly, and downy with a dusting of the light, caramel hair at his groin. Her fingertips felt beneath, where his cock was deeply rooted... he _bulged_ there, a curious feeling. She caressed him, a firm massage, feeling the engorged vein, and Rumpelstiltskin shuddered with a sharp gasp.

"Did I hurt you?" Belle asked, alarmed.

"No... don't stop. Belle... please, touch me.."

Her breath caught, her slow burn of arousal cresting with his words.

Rumpelstiltskin leaned back on his hands... it was as if his cock was an offering to her. His eyes were slitted, watching her avidly. The muscles of his chest and belly were tensed; those of his thighs stood out in straining relief. His posture showed Belle more of his most private places... that deep rooting she'd petted... the centralized part of his body where his thighs met curving buttocks, and the deep cleft of his bum. His hipbones jutted out, a flush covered his face and chest... and all of it served as an erotic, heady frame for his nodding, weeping cock and heavy balls.

Did he feel like this when she was splayed out before him? Belle felt as though she couldn't breathe. Seeing him, thus, tugged at her in a way that had been increasing of late... A combination of something deeply aggressive in his nature was at war with something utterly passive... something that alternately begged of her, and yet wanted only to please her.

But, on a breath, he could turn... and _take._ Belle felt beside herself in her desire for him and in the confusion it so often caused her.

She cupped him warmly again, gentle when handling the somewhat mysterious balls. Then she once more moved lower, beneath, fingers feeling and firmly petting the _root_ , the _bulge_... it was a place she hadn't really seen, (though he'd made sure to see, to _touch_ , all of her); she felt deeply curious.

Rumpelstiltskin's hips moved up and down, raised off of his heels... the muscles of his buttocks and legs worked, pumping his hips, and - gods, Belle thought - how his cock _bounced_ , weighty and lewd. More from his movement than her own, her fingers grazed over where he was most deeply clefted... that place, she thought, that she still felt uneasy about, private about on her own body.

Feeling as if she'd done something illicit; dirty or wicked, she froze. Her eyes went to his. His movements continued; sinuous, steady... up-down, up-down... hip grind and cock bounce. Breathing raggedly, he said, "Don't stop..."

Belle gave a small, sighing moan. She was overwrought, the hollowed feeling coming to her chest, her abdomen. Butterflies swooned in her belly and birds beat muscled wings in her chest.... She felt, now, the heat of blood, pooling between her legs... her arousal pumped, her sex leaking blood and the seed Rumpelstiltskin had left in her. She wanted to be clean, to be pretty, but she was caught, now; in her own heat and in Rumpelstiltskin's.

Cautiously, she moved her finger a little lower, and Rumpelstilskin gave a deep, long moan. He was almost riding her finger, Belle thought... as she rode him. The confused feeling of roles flip-flopping washed over her, leaving her needy; struck by his beauty, unable to see what others saw.

Moving against him, countering his motions and making friction, Belle stroked with her fingers. Sometimes firmly, sometimes feather light; balls, root, cleft. Moving closer to him, her other hand caressing thigh and hip, she overcame her unease over the blood and ran her tongue up his shaft. She followed the vein, from base to head. The scent was his musk and her own, and a coppery, metallic scent that she made a mental adjustment around. The taste was salty, and hotter than what she was used to. She suckled the head into her mouth, but it popped out again with Rumpelstiltskin's motions. His gasping moans were both pleasure and frustration.

He was slippery beneath from the blood and arousal of the earlier coupling. Belle's hand slid against the slickness, ever more firm, almost penetrating. The sounds he made were making her blind with lust, and then he whispered, "Fuck me, love."

She looked at him, uncertain. She didn't want to mistake his meaning.

"Gods, Belle... _please.."_

He was on a jagged edge.... Belle thought she knew how he felt. She brought her left hand to his cock, encircling the shaft, as slick as the rest of his intimate parts. Her right hand stayed in place, and she made a firm press with her middle finger. His body and the slickness did the rest... He fucked her hand with his cock; her finger, meeting only a little resistance, slid inside of him partway, and then - on his second thrust, grind - slid in to the knuckle.

She watched him throw his head back, throat, adam's apple exposed, and he _rode_ her. The sounds he made... whimpers, growls, cries and _fuck me, fuck me!_ When he came, spurting like a fountain, Belle _felt_ it beneath... he clenched at her, gripping her finger, her knuckle, as his cock pulsed and gushed.

He lay back, panting for breath, bringing his legs out from beneath his body. He kept his feet flat on the bed, legs apart... as the pulsing of his cock and _beneath_ grew more faint, Belle slowly slid out of him. As he did with her, she massaged her fingers over the opening, also the bulge just above it, somewhat less prominent, now.

"... Ah...." a soft, ragged moan, part sigh.

Scooting between his open legs, she brought both hands to play, moving from his more volatile parts to kneading firmly at his inner thighs and around his hips. He had one arm thrown back; the other, as so often happened, lay over his torso, hand over his heart. Belle wondered if knew how often he protected his heart in that manner. His hand moved in a light massage.

"It looks like you may be going back to normal." she said, softly.

His cock hadn't exactly gone flaccid, but it seemed less engorged. It lay, semi-firm and appealingly large, on his flat, trembling belly.

"Whatsoever that may mean for the likes of meself." he croaked, eyes still closed.

"Are you alright, Rumpel?"

"Aye. I feel quite... unmanned, though." His eyes opened, meeting hers. "I couldn't help it... it felt too good."

Belle, having given up entirely on controlling her bloodshed, moved to sit with her legs open, frogged out on either side of Rumpelstiltskin, her feet against his sides. Her sex nuzzled to his balls... it was sort of a full-body hug. She moved her hands in a firm sweep from his hip bones to the full curve of haunch beneath, and then up his sides, over his ribs. In her forward lean, she kissed his cock.

His hand came to stroke, and then grasp and hold firmly to her hair. She placed baby kisses along the shaft; she bussed the head.

"You'll wake it, dearie." Rumpelstilskin said. It seemed a warning, but his hand, fisted in her hair, didn't discourage her actions. She felt a stirring at his balls, that weird, sea-creature movement they did; the movement tickled against her sex. She turned her head and nuzzled her cheek against the shaft, her hands holding a lush bunching of muscle and flesh at his haunches.

"You're not unmanned." she said. "Not at all."

".... mmmm..."

Who's greedy, now? Belle thought. His hand, the nudge of his hips... he was trying to bring her mouth to his cock. She peered up at him; he was gazing down at her, head rolled to his cradling arm.

"More?" Belle asked.

"Always, love. Especially now... now that I've been assaulted with your blood. I can't seem to remember about refractory periods."

"It's odd, though, isn't it?" Belle asked, brow furrowed.

Smiling, Rumpelstiltskin said, "Are you going to get inquisitive and thoughtful, _now?_ Possibly ruminate?"

He brought his other arm down and held his cock. He brushed the head against her cheek.... near her lips. His left hand stayed in her hair, loosely holding her in place. Belle's eyelashes fluttered, her sex yearning as she was so handled.

"What's odd, love?" he asked, though the velvety head of his cock was still hot against her lips.

"... Oh... " It was difficult to be articulate. She kissed the head, a bit wetly, and Rumpelstiltskin sucked in his breath. But he said, "Yes, dearie? Do go on." He was playing with her.

"Just... Your reaction to the blood. I got to thinking of fertility gods... then fertility."

"Indeed..." He caressed her cheek with the head. His hips made a subtle grind. His hand in her hair was firmly directing her, _down._

".... Yes.... in your state... And I've read about men being more attracted to women when they ovulate... when they're fertile."

"You're quite well read, dearie."

"Hmm. But _... now_ would be my least fertile time, I think. Just the fact of the blood means we haven't made a baby."

"... no wee bairn...." Sing-song.

"And yet you seem _so_ attracted to me... so cuddly and needy... even my scent seems to have inflamed you."

"Oh.... yes. I am inflamed, my love."

He directed his cock into her mouth and held her firm, making a few shallow thrusts. Belle closed her eyes and sucked her lips against him, feeling him with her tongue. They were a mess, she thought. Truly. She tasted metal, salt, the bitter-ish, peppery taste of his come... She dreaded confronting the blood; the puddle she must be making. It felt decadent, orgiastic. Frightening. _Dark._

He relented thrusting... his cock slid from her lips, and his hand moved from her hair to her face. He played a game of caressing her face and lips with his cock, the fingers of his other hand touching her jaw, her mouth. He liked to look into her eyes as he touched her this way.

"I suppose you're right, love." he said, breathy. "Perhaps it is a backwards kind of attraction...There was something in your writing about blood..."

Oh, the writing. Belle still didn't have her journal back, and hadn't, since her first, cursory glance. That writing, she thought, had changed Rumpelstiltskin, somehow. And now her blood had changed him, again.

"What could be important in that gibberish?" she asked.

With a pout and a grunt, he gave her cheek a mild slap with his cock. Belle almost smiled.

"It's not gibberish, dearie. You want to read more closely."

"I would... but my journal's gone missing."

He slapped her again, the cock making a soft thump. "Bad girl."

"Do I lie?"

In answer, he fed his cock into her mouth again. Belle took it, as much as she could, and sucked slowly, bobbing her head up and down. She raised her eyes to his, always so difficult when she did this.... but she so loved to see the lust, the desire in his eyes as he watched her.

He seemed content to do just that... he stared at her, breathing deeply, sometimes thrusting a little. She felt that her lips and tongue were swelling, her sex throbbing. Her jaw began to ache, but the lushness, the sensual feel of her hands and lips on Rumpelstiltskin, their legs about on another, kept her sucking, tasting. It was quiet, breathy; as their earlier coupling.

She broke off once, easing the strain in her shoulders and lower back. Rumpelstiltskin, seeming to know her aches, palmed her jaw warmly, massaging with his fingers. He brushed his thumb over her lips.

"Does it please you?" Belle whispered.

" _Yes_." he whispered back. "You always please me, love."

Smiling, Belle bit his thumb lightly, and said, "Except when I don't."

"Well. Except for then."

She took him in her mouth again, making him moan and gyrate a bit. Abruptly, he sat up. In a move Belle couldn't keep up with, he slid from her mouth, pushed her back on the bed and kissed her, his body over her. Then he turned about, swinging his leg over her... his cock dangled heavily down to her face, his thighs surrounding her, everything so close... so warm. He brought his face down to her sex and was scenting... _kissing_. Panicked, Belle said, "Rumple... there's so much blood..."

"Mmmm..." his tongue laved over her little bud.... a long, soft lick, and Belle felt an electric thrill, a current run through her. It was a very new feeling.... The soft, warm wetness of his lips and tongue... _there_. She couldn't quite believe he was doing this.... did people _do_ this?? They must, she thought.... she'd taken him in her mouth a number of times. Somehow she hadn't imagined the other way around.

"You taste so good." he murmured.

Did she? Gods... the blood. He lapped at her sex and thighs, licking it up, cleaning her. She felt the muscles of her legs shaking, tense and high strung.... the little bud throbbed in the absence of his tongue.

To distract herself from both the panic and intense pleasure his actions caused, she focused on the new, overpowering feeling of his intimate parts, _over_ her; in her face. She ran her hands up the backs of his thighs, over his buttocks. She stroked the dangling cock, rubbing it against her lips, and touched him, again, in the ways she'd just learned... she touched without penetrating, and was rewarded with his muffled groans, the grinding of his hips.

And all along, he licked and sucked at her. He opened her, his fingers on her vulva, and for awhile he was only... feeding himself. His tongue licked at her entrance, pushed inside of her, his nose prodding her in obscene ways. He was _drinking_ her blood, she realized... Rumpelstiltskin was a _blood drinker_...? This was an adjustment in her thinking... feeling...

Sometimes she could almost tune out the sensations he caused, so focused could she become on pleasuring him. But there were times she just lay with her eyes closed, and felt the animal, nuzzling presence of his genitals. She drank in his scent, felt the softness and closeness of his skin... these things overwhelmed her, and heightened the feeling of his mouth... working her, drinking from her. He brought his lips back to her bud in a soft suckle, and slid a finger inside her, thrusting. As he thrust with his finger, his hips thrust, his cock an insistent, soft and wet brush against her face... and it was then that Belle broke. She dug her hands into his thighs, just below his bum, and she went blind and senseless, gasping and crying out, her hips bucking against his face as the climax took her.

Before she could even regain sight or breath, Rumpelstiltskin turned - only a warm feeling of movement to Belle. He slid his cock inside of her, hilting it, and Belle cried out, loudly. Her sex still convulsed, more sensitive with her bleeding, tissues hot, swollen and tender. Rumpelstiltskin took advantage of their combined arousal, slickness, her blood... he slid forcefully past the resistance of her muscles, the clenching of her body, and -nearly shouting - he fucked her with erratic, jolting thrusts.

Belle knew a second of pain, a hot flash of it as her body protested. Then it became pleasure so intense... as if her climax had never stopped. Pleasure rolled over her in waves, so that she could only cling helplessly to Rumpelstiltskin, lost and storm-lashed, as he rode out his pleasure.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

.... There was finally an aftermath. Belle didn't know if what she felt was satiation, or if she was just too sore, too wrung out to continue. Likewise, Rumpelstiltskin didn't quite achieve flaccidness, but came to something much less turgid... something that, perhaps, could be tamed into trousers.

"I suppose we can't just stay in bed all day." Belle sighed.

Propped beside her, Rumpelstiltskin drew lazy, figure eights around her breasts with his fingers. (Was the number 8 linked to goddesses and breasts?)

"You can do whatever you like, dearie." he said. "But no... I can't stay in bed all day. Sadly." He leaned down and kissed her breast, briefly capturing her nipple. "My beauty." he murmured. "My love."

"Me, or my bosom?"

"Well... I love you both, dearie. Don't fret. There's enough of me for everyone." He nudged his cock suggestively against her thigh.

"Hmm."

Belle roused herself, thinking that they would both need a bath before any semblance of regular life could begin. She felt ready to be a civilized woman again... clean, dressed, with a soft cloth to catch her blood. Perhaps she _was_ sated... her cravings were leaning towards tea, books, and a warm fire at her back to ease her aches and chills.

She was arrested by her reflection in the mirror... and then by Rumpelstiltskin, as he slowly trailed her path. He was less eager to get on with civility. She stopped dead in her tracks, seeing the wild thing; the ghostly, feral thing that was... _herself._ Her hair was tangled, matted... with blood? Her eyes were hollow, her skin seemed so pale. Bloody streaks and handprints covered her body... her lips were puffy and caked with dried blood. Her thighs... it was horrifying. She was a ghoul.

Rumpelstiltskin stood behind her, his hands coming to rest on her hips. His eyes moved over the image in the glass, and Belle saw hunger in them. He wasn't put off or frightened, as she was. He brought his hands, dark on her ghost-skin, to her breasts, cupping them, and he grinned wickedly; staring in the mirror at the bloody handprints, _his_ , colors of rust and fading maroon. Belle thought of how he'd stood them in the mirror, before, on their first night together.... The strange couple they'd made, she in her grey dress; he in his dapper, autumn colors. Strange, but appealing to her. She'd felt like _his._

But this... Certainly, she was _his_. But his _what?_ His darkened teeth were frightful as his _mirth_ , his _delight_ showed plainly at the debauchery they'd wrought. Belle thought she saw blood in his teeth, along his gums. The earlier thought - _he's a blood drinker_ \- came back to her, more impactful without the distraction of pleasure. What could it mean, his drinking of her? Was it the demon? Was she feeding, nourishing it? Strengthening it?

Looking now at the couple they made, Belle saw corruption, and tears pricked her eyes, squeezing her throat. What would become of them? Of her?

At her soft sound of dismay, Rumpelstiltskin's eyes moved to hers, his smile fading. He seemed to register their very different reactions.

"No, love." he said. He turned Belle away from the mirror to face him, soothing her as if she were a child.

"It's alright," he crooned. "It's alright, Belle. Don't cry, love."

Kissing her forehead, caressing her back, he steered her away from the shock of the mirror. His own expression was humbled by her quiet upset... it was more human, less impish. Less filled with unbridled, dark glee.

"Let's get our bath, love." he said softly. "A hot bath, a pot of tea. All will be right with the world again, you'll see."

Nodding, Belle let herself be led to her copper tub; Rumpelstiltskin's magic had already filled it with hot, steaming, honey-scented water.

　

　

　

 


	13. A Galaxy Far, Far Away

Belle. Beautiful Belle and her bouncing breasts were off with her bevy of books.

Or, he hoped so. He'd rattled her, frightened her. Perhaps rather badly. Rumpelstiltskin had surprised even himself.

His tower room was a mess of projects in flux... there was much he'd left unattended, of late. All he wanted to do was to be with Belle... to be near her scent, the feel of her. To taste her and be inside her.

He sat at his desk, leaned back in his chair, and the window was thrown wide open. At last, it was snowing... at least that sight had cheered Belle, bringing a dawning smile to her face. There was little snow in her kingdom, that golden place of primitive foliage, grown out of proportion to the tamed land. Some winters there was no snow, she'd said.

Well, she'd get her fill. The snow had only just started as they had their tea, barely visible. Little flurries, rather than flakes... almost rain. Within moments big, white, feathery snowflakes had filled the sky, swirling down out of near darkness and coating everything. Already the trees, their bare branches, were sparkling, softened creations of snow. It blanketed the grounds and the walls; the castle, hiding it's darkness. Belle was enchanted.

He would need to close the window, soon.... The snow, becoming elaborate, lacy or swirled crystals, was funneling into the tower room, just as it spiraled down, in masses, from the heavy blanketing of cloud above. It was covering the sill, the desk, the objects upon it... it was covering _him_ , as he sat so still, elbows on the arms of the chair, fingers steepled.

He'd wanted the cold. He needed clarity, and a reminder of .... the _spareness_ of his life, before. Before Belle. He was going soft, he thought; in so many ways. He'd slept.. _slept_ , deeply, at that... in her bed, every night since their first night. He couldn't bear to be away from her for a night, but he was also... luxuriating. In Belle, in the warmth of her bed, the softness and cradling of it. She laughed at him for the depth of his sleep, his steady snore. Sometimes he didn't even remember dreaming.

A wizard who didn't dream... It couldn't be good. Not since before his Curse had his body wanted such comfort. The weaknesses emerging in him were _human_ weaknesses; for love, sex, food... even simple warmth. He hadn't required warmth in such a long time... he was immune to the cold, whether literal cold; or the fear, the avoidance of others. Now he wrapped up in cloaks... he _snuggled_ into Belle's bed, into her arms. He was a kitten, a baby squirrel in it's nest, a duckling under it's mother's wing. Who would fear that?

... Bloody cold. Standing, he closed the window, then waved a hand to rid the room of mounting crystals and melting snow. With a snap of his fingers, a fire roared to life in the fireplace, chips of softer wood all but exploding , popping loudly in the sudden heat. That was better.

Yes, the comforts, the pleasures he craved were human, but whatever needed Belle's blood... was not.

It's me, I'm it, he'd told Belle of the Dark One. It was true, there really was no separation. More than the skin deep connection that everyone could plainly see; it was all of him. Scenting Belle's blood, his cock could testify, (as in testicle), to that fact. (Was it the human or the demon who had needed... penetration?)

Hands clasped behind his back, he slowly paced the tower room. He played with magic, but it was only practice... a running through of basic things, so long known to him, he could do them without thought. A playing of scales, chords. Candles lit and winked out. Books, left open but unused, closed and re-shelved themselves. Objects appeared in puffs and swirls of lavender-blue smoke, and either put themselves where they were needed, or disappeared again. The room smelled heavily of storms and honey. The honey-scent made Rumpelstiltskin think of Belle, her body wet from the bath, shimmering in firelight. Water beaded in the triangle of dark curls between her legs... the way the light was golden, and moved over her skin like silk... Gods, she was such a distraction. The things she _did_ to him. The things she let him do...

Having run through his paces, and still he thought of Belle, he sat down at his desk and opened her journal. Self indulgent, for a time he allowed himself to skim over her thoughts on love and sex.... Her amazingly charitable views on his body... his cock. When he realized the shallowness of his breathing, the shifting of his hips, he scowled at himself. This constant _need_ wouldn't do.... the ease with which he sought relief.

He turned to The Writing, Belle's ghost writing, he thought, and read through it again.

It was agitating.

Was it truth, or merely a sort of egotism that he saw himself as the Darkness Rider? _Darkness Rider, he is fey._ Rumpelstiltskin bristled at that. The word was not familiar, but it seemed as if it must be similar to Fae... Faerie. He fucking well wasn't a faerie.

Still... Elf-shot? Elf was a word he knew, but it wasn't native. Were elves real, like the bloody Fae? What he'd read sounded more like the indigenous spirits of a far off land... spirits _tied_ to that land. Foreign in this land.

_Cursed_. That, he knew something about. Cursed, wandering this world.

And, oh... he had. Before founding the Dark Castle, and even after... he had wandered long and far, hiding under a cowled cloak or using magic to disguise himself altogether... to shape-shift. To change his face. _Or to be invisible._

He'd wandered and searched. He'd stolen, or otherwise procured the magic of others.... He'd _taken_ their powers, skills, becoming stronger as he robbed and often murdered them. He grew stronger from their lifeforces.

How Belle would hate him. Even if she understood _why_ he did it... the power he needed and the loss he tried to make right... She would loathe the way he'd hunted them down; magic doers, wizards, witches. Spirits and psychics and deities, laid to rest as bogey and ha'ints... and bloody, fucking _faeries_. (That lot deserved what they got.)

He hunted them; He tore their magic from them. Sometimes he tore them apart, blood in his mouth... as it had been this evening.

He could have, he thought, ill at ease. He could have kept fucking her, tasting her, gulping her down... until he was tearing her apart. _No. He would never_.

The names, the sequences; these parts of Belle's writing eluded him. There was a sense of different stories, perhaps from different places or times, come together to form something of a cohesive narrative. Was _she_ this figure, a Goblin Queen? (If so, was he a King, her consort?) There seemed to be an idea that these two figures, the Darkness Rider/Gift Giver and the Undine/Goblin Queen. had come together over many lifetimes. Many lives. There was fatality to it. Fate.

He'd stolen the gift of sight. (And thank the gods, should there be any left to thank, it hadn't come complete with staring, pale blue eyeballs in the palms of his hands. As if he wasn't conspicuous enough.) Having done so, he knew fate was a tricky thing. It was real, and it could be strong.... but people could be strong, as well. And there were external forces, always at work. Those such as himself... forces bigger than him... Bending, changing, manipulating. Even when fate was so strong as to be unworkable, there were nuances, important details, that once could fiddle with.

All in all, fate and looking into the future... as his life now demanded... was a difficult business. Even the present could shift about as he strode within it, changing. He had not foreseen _any_ of what had happened with Belle. (And was _that_ fate? He'd never known why he made the deal. It was only an impulse... his impish delight in watching her father, her fiance squirm and bluster and try to remain honorable in the face of a deal that would save them all. He'd expected to thrill in watching the lassie cringe in horror... but she had not. She had _assessed_ him. Were the two of them part of a pattern?)

... And not only the present, but the past; what was done and sometimes recorded; could get a bit slippery as well. It could change, depending on the perspective, the light. Or darkness. And that, in turn, influenced both present and future. The _way_ something was remembered... caused _change_.

Sometimes he regretted stealing this so-called second sight. He needed it, to be sure, and - with work - important nuggets of information could be extracted, and were useful. But it was so uncertain, and it could all be such a mad jumble. He'd considered taking the seer's life, along with her gift, a revenge. She had been the instrument of his undoing... she opened the door to one of the most painful times in his long, long life. Or... she had saved his life, depending on the perspective, the light.

Darkness.

However, it was she, gifted in the sorting of the barrage of information, possibilities, who was victorious. It pained Rumpelstiltskin to know it, but that he did. Even when he'd taken her gift, something akin to spiritual rape, he'd known he wasn't the victor. The sight came to him, and harried him, and was more often his master than the other way around. And she'd known... she'd known he would go mad.

She'd _seen._

... Other names in Belle's journal hounded him. Who was Shemyaza? Cain?

Dionysus...? (The notion of Belle 'presenting' her 'swollen senses' to the 'sex of Dionysus", whomever that might be, put Rumpelstiltskin in a black and murderous state. What _were_ these things she'd written?

Daughters of Eve.

Tesseract. The Eye. The Realm.

Gods, she _was_ a witch. It was an unsettling thought. Or... a seer?

Rumpelstiltsking closed his eyes. She is only a girl, he thought, calming himself. A clever girl, and _open..._ something may be using her. But she's only a girl.

She was _his_. If he found out what used her, his fury would know no bounds.

Opening his eyes, he looked at the parts of her writing that had so unsettled him: the parts he knew from his own dreams.... the dreams he'd never had until he took on the Curse. (And there is was, again. He _took_. He'd been only a man, as Belle was only a girl, and he'd stolen the power of the Dark One, killing it's host, cursing himself. Theft of power, magic. Murder. This was his pattern, and the Curse had made it even bloodier. Surely there was no goodness in him.)

The part about a Motherhouse... that word was not in the dreams, but it was part of the history of the land. People who lived long before he'd been born as a human.... maybe some of them were out there, in the hinterlands, the Deadlands; in the Hollow Hills and barrows. These people had chiefs or kings as leaders, and built Greathouses or Motherhouses rather than castles. Entire hills or mountains were fortified... The Motherhouses; for the bloodline had gone through the women, even when power began to lay with men; were at the tops of high places, surrounded by protective walls and battlements.

In his dream, the word, any sense of the history of the land was all but lost. He found himself in such a place, following a cowled person he was never to know. He wound down a long, dark corridor.

Just as in Belle's writing, he watched as the figure placed one, spindly finger on the wall, dragging it along. Light followed, it's source unseen, unknown. It was sometimes a phosphorous, ghost-light, (dancing you to your doom); sometimes the light was brilliant.

It was to do with magic, he'd thought.

He was shown the things of Belle's writing in that place... he _listened_ to blood, in a bowl or cupped hand. And yes - it sang. It spoke to the blood of his own body, and he felt his heart's blood speaking back. He wasn't only himself, or the Dark One.... he was many faces, many voices. All had a say, had actions. All were influential, like the many possibilities seen by the seer.

He saw maps of lands he knew, as well as those he didn't; and the mysterious light made lines, roads... all over the multi-layered, three dimensional maps. He was _in_ the maps... they filled the cold, lit room.

The lines of light marked... holy places? They spider-webbed; they intersected and interconnected, making great explosions of light.

_Here are the temples._

But he knew, in his dreams, that _holy_ and _powerful_ and _inspiring worship_ was not necessarily the same as _good_. Some of the places of power had been places of horror.

Bloodshed. Blood always mattered... It sang.

He opened his own journal, where he's made notes on Belle's writing. (Shemyaza, Cain... origins of the Dark One?)

He'd traveled by owl, that slippery, spirit part of himself that could wriggle into the bird, nestle unobtrusively into optic nerves and stare from binocular eyes. He'd taken his intent, as clear as he was able to make it, into the chaos to which the owl travelled.

And here, he'd found a small piece of it. A tiny parcel of Belle's writing, but a repeating one.

Orion.

It was a constellation of stars, but it was not in _this_ galaxy. Therefore it, like most of the writing, could not be found in any of his books.

How could Belle know of a grouping of stars in _another galaxy_? Another world, like the layers of maps in his dreams.

In it's far-off galaxy, (the galaxy a spiral, like the shell-house of Belle's Undine, she who was covered in a veil of gossamer... like stars?), Orion was named for a great hunter/warrior figure. Three stars, roughly in the middle of the constellation, were very bright and were the hunter's belt.

As in Belle's writing, it had a nebula... it birthed new stars. It was also home to a bright star that had been dying for centuries, and would one day explode. Sirius, the hunter's dog, followed Orion. The Dog Star.

And though it was not in her writing, Rumpelstiltskin, with the owl, had learned that Orion housed a star called Bellatrix.

_He cries out from Orion, he hangs there, married to sorrow. Forever._

Was _that_ the Dark One?

 


	14. Taking Matters In Hand

She had always been a little off during her moon time. She could be moody, peevish and sensitive. After her mother died, she was often sad.

It's just your time, her nurses would say. It will go away. (These same ladies referred to her mother's death as 'her time'.) And the feelings did go away... or rather, the intensity of the feelings went away. Belle had come to understand that the feelings and perceptions that came with her blood were not false; they were not delusions. Something about that time simply brought strong feeling, buried thoughts to light. And though light was shed with blood, it nearly always felt like a dark time.

Now there was Rumpelstiltskin, feeding the darkness. Feeding _on_ darkness; on her. ( _No wee bairn_ , he'd said. Something inside her clenched, holding in a small sob. Had she _wanted_ a baby? Had he?)

Her nighttime sleep was often troubled when she bled. In the day, she became more sleepy, especially when the bleeding was heavy. She wanted to curl up in warmth, in light, and sleep. The cold, in spite of the new magic of snow, was unwelcome. It was in her bones; it was like an icy, tight fist in her lower belly. Her legs would not get warm, and ached. Belle tried to slow her breathing and use Rumpelstiltskin's lesson.... She was under a high, hot sun. She imagined the sun, a burst of light so bright and hot, the blue of the sky was gone... it was washed out by light, the sun directly overhead. She had to squint, seeing only rays of light, her eyes watering.

She imagined laying on the flagstones of the inner courtyard, the stone hot from absorbing the heat of the sun. It was merciless, the blaze and the punishing heat, the expanse of stone. It would burn the bottoms of her bare feet, and yet felt so good, radiating up against the skin of her back, the small of her back, the backs of her thighs.

It worked for awhile, and the heaviness took her. Finally warm before the fire in the sitting room, she nodded off in Rumpelstiltskin's big, wing-back chair, dreaming of heat. Of sun. Her eyelashes were the only shadows she knew in such light... a world of white and glare... a world of red when her eyes were closed, sun illuminating the blood vessels of her eyelids.

She woke, jerking upright with the feel of her body falling. She was cold again, achy. She could sense Rumpelstiltskin about, and smell the faint, honey-scent she so often smelled... all over him. In his hair. Smoke, cinnamon. Clove, anise, heat and musk, her nose to his belly. Old leather and alyssum; spells, enchantments, curses.

Restless, cramping, she went to his tower room... he kept his doors open to her, now. She found him at his desk, and she could see - in his back and shoulders, the cocking of his head - he was aware of her. As she so often thought, it was like watching a cat... a cat with it's back to her, yet showing signs of it's awareness. An ear turned back, a whisker-twitch.... a little tap of the tip of a ringed tail. No wonder Chloe adored her master, so... he was her own kind.

Goofy, Belle said, "Meow."

That made him turn around. He regarded her with an eyebrow-raise and a curious face. Belle pretended to wash her paw, licking her hand. What had gotten into her?

"Have you been magiced into a feline, dearie?"

Belle nodded, with another _mew_ , and crossed the room, coming to his chair. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms about her hips, hands warm at her pained, lower back, massaging. He pressed his face to her equally pained lower belly, nuzzling.

"Meow." Belle said, petting his head.

Peering up at her, he said, "So you're a were-cat, then? With your moon blood comes the days of the month that you shift?"

That was good; Belle liked that thought. She nodded enthusiastically, tongue rolling _R's_ on the roof of her mouth, making a loud purr.

"I see, dearie."

He nuzzled her again, then pulled her into his lap. "Sweet pussy." he smiled. Belle swatted him.

Relenting her cat-ness, she said, "I believe that's my journal."

"Indeed, dearie."

"You've no shame at all, do you? About taking it and reading it. Keeping it."

Gazing at her, he said "I've shame, enough, love. Lakes. Oceans."

"Hm. Meow."

"Meow, yourself. Vixen. Crumpet. Wanton."

Belle hissed, snarling, making claws of her hands and menacing. Rumpelstiltskin smiled broadly at her, looking rather proud.

"I can't quite tell, dearie. Is this playfulness, or has your moon-blood made you simple-minded?"

With a sigh, Belle said, "Both. But... Guess what? I made myself warm, the way you showed me."

"Indeed?"

"Indeed." Belle replied, with a serious, Rumpel-frown. "I fell asleep and it wore off. But I did it."

"You're such a good kitty. So clever. I should give you some milk to lap."

He made as if to undo his trousers, scooting Belle a bit. She swatted him again.

"Ow. You always resort to violence, dearie."

"That is _not_ milk."

"It makes something milk-like." he offered, hand out as if presenting a gift. "Or, anyway, sometimes it feels as if it's being milked."

When Belle only looked at him, droll and dry, he said, "I'm a bad man." Mock-frown.

Nodding in agreement, Belle leaned close to his ear and said, "That's why I'll have to spank you. I've told you... Bad men must be punished."

Rumpelstiltskin groaned, and Belle smiled. She so loved playing with him this way... the shifting back and forth of power; the heat, and even the silliness they created. She kissed just beneath his ear, _oh, the honey scent, the wood-smoke, storm scent... everywhere_. Moving lower, she fell to kissing, sucking at the crook of his neck, hungry for his scent and taste.

His hands moved over her back, radiating heat, and his hips moved beneath her. Belle's eyes were closed, blissful. Oh... _to feel_.

"So you've come up here to torment me?" Rumpelstiltskin croaked.

"Mm hm," kiss, lick, suck. "Meow." Bite.

".... Ah.... "

She lifted her head, finding his mouth... He ravished hers. His hands came to her hair, to her neck. He held her and pushed his tongue into her mouth, wet and madly wanting.

Oh... crap. She hadn't meant to do this...

Belle felt his hips, pressing, almost rocking; the hardness of his cock, insistent under her bottom. Gods, she wanted it. Even in the midst of her achiness... maybe the more so for it. But the blood scared her, now. His _feeding_ scared the devil out of her. That bloodstained, gleeful grin.

She gentled the kissing, pulling back only a little; making soft presses of her lips, though his tongue still sought hers. She tried not to bear down against him. He didn't seem to notice her change of pace. His mouth still devoured and demanded of her, hot and seeking, gruff sounds in his throat. His hand tightened on her neck, and Belle felt a wet sort of gush between her legs... a helpless, aching response. The blood, she thought, suppressing a shudder.

Hot against her mouth, Rumpelstiltskin whispered, "I want to fuck you."

Belle felt herself rock... Would she never stop responding to his words? His voice? Forcing her eyes open, she sat more upright. "I can't." she said, her words moving past the hold he had about her neck.

"You can, dearie. You know you can."

Pressing her lips together, she shook her head. "No, I can't. I... I don't want to."

His hand squeezed a little tighter. He smiled at her, but Belle felt his irritation.

"Well, that's just a _lie_ , dearie. You plainly _want_ to. You _always_ want to. You're just troubled by a bit of blood."

"I'm troubled by what it does to you."

He only looked at her... he seemed a bit at war with himself. His eyes, his expression was strange. Then he all but shoved her off of his lap.... she stumbled to get her footing, her feelings rather hurt.

Standing, his voice raised, Rumpelstiltskin said, "Then why did you come here, missie? With your think-of-my-pussy-meowing and your touching and whispering. Your good enough to eat scent... your hot tongue and white teeth..." He grabbed the bulge at his crotch in a rather crude way, jostling it in her general direction. "Fucking hell, Belle."

"You," she huffed, pointing her finger at him, "are rude!"

"Oh dearie dear!" he leaned back in mocking chagrin, hands to his face. Turning, he stuck his leather clad bum out at her, hands braced on his knees. Looking back at her, he sang, "Better _spank_ me then, dearie. Bad men must be punished!"

Belle's mouth dropped open, and she said, "Rude _and_ childish! _And_ ridiculous! So I can only be close to you if I plan to bring you off. Is that it?"

Standing upright again, Rumpelstiltskin appeared to argue with himself. Hands aflutter, brow creased. He looked to one side of the argument, then the other. Belle leaned back, nonplussed, regarding him as she might a madman.

"You're in a right state." she observed.

"Oh, _really_?" Wide-eyed. "Do you think, dearie?" Promptly, he opened his trousers and let out the beast within. It fell heavily down, then sprang back up again, pointing at Belle in angry accusation.

Belle's hands flew to her mouth, stifling a startled snort. " _Rumpel!"_

"Oh, it's funny, is it, dearie?" He came at her in an obscene swagger, cock bobbing. Belle backed away.

"Why don't we drop all pretense, dearie?" Rumpelstiltskin smiled, and he pointed downward with both hands. "You go ahead and lead me around by this thing, which - after all - is _yours_. I know you're a kind mistress and you'll let me bluster and bark and act like I'm in charge. But we know the truth, don't we, love. So... go ahead. It's yours; I just work here. Claim it and maneuver me in whatever way you think best."

Belle laughed, trying not to... his face had become so earnest. "... Rumpel..."

"No, no," he held up his hands. Don't fight it. I certainly can't, dearie. This thing is my leash... do with me what you will."

"This is a very silly and rude ploy to be touched." Belle said, smiling as she looked down at the needful thing between them. She back up into eyes gone completely puppy-like.

"Oh, for crying out loud..."

His expression changed, giving Belle a feeling of _uh-oh_.

_"Meow_." he said.

She backed up, seeing a slyness come into his eyes. He took a step towards her, more sly with every second.

"No, wait," Belle said, hands before her, walking backwards. "You said _I'm_ in charge. _I'm_ in the lead."

"Oh, but you hesitated, dearie. See what happens when bad girls hesitate? When they fail to embrace their power?"

_"No-no-no..."_

He lunged at her. Belle knew, or thought she knew, that it was playful. But she jumped anyway, with a squeal. She turned in a swirling of skirts and ran, and Rumpelstiltskin, a study in obscenity, pursued.

"Oh no, missie!" He called, in a loud sing-song. His boots rang out on the stone steps. Belle wanted to turn to see him... the energized and bouncing cock... but any pause would leave her vulnerable. She couldn't _hesitate._

Rounding the banister at the foot of the stairs, sliding and skidding in her slippers, she raced off down the nearest corridor. She didn't know where she was going... passages were by turns dark or light, and Rumpelstiltskin was close behind. She came to a point where she ran out of options. The corridor ended, all of the doors were locked... _this castle was rigged_. She turned to see that Rumpelstiltskin had slowed his walk, his hand slowly stroking as he closed in on her. _Swagger, swagger_. They were both breathing hard from the run. He smiled.

"There you are."

Belle laughed, a little explosion, but in truth she was quite excited. The run, the pursuit had warmed her and _thrilled_ her. His cock excited her. His swagger, smile... his _menace_ , she admitted to herself, _excited_ her.

"Going somewhere, dearie?"

Oh.... the long stroke of his hand.... the surge of lust she felt, looking at it.... his thumb caressed over the head....

"I was being chased by a terrible monster. I'm fortunate you've arrived."

"Well, yes. For I have a weapon, you see."

Belle bit her lip. "I see."

"You needn't lie, dearie. I know you want it. I suspect the villagers hear it when you come."

"Oh for.." Belle blushed. "Hush."

Smiling, Rumpelstiltskin said, "But tell the truth, love... You want it. You want this." She felt the heat of his stroke.

"Yes." she whispered.

Letting go of the hot item in question, hands clasped behind his back, he said, "It's yours, missie."

Belle considered it. Her eyes roved from his face, somber but with eyes full of owl-merriment; to the blushing and yet unrepentant cock.

"Alright." she said, decisively. She took the weapon firmly in hand and began to retrace her path down the corridor. Rumpelstiltskin's swagger changed to an amusing shuffle, hands at his sides, and he said, "Wh.... Where are we going, dearie?"

"To the kitchen."

"To the _kitchen?"_

Belle was thrilled. Trembling, almost, with an excitement that was equal parts lust and bubbly happiness. Such was the feeling of leading Rumpelstiltskin about his castle by the cock. Whatever his mood swings and neediness, she thought, it was certain that he was _hers_. Just as he'd said.

"Are you going to make me your naked char-boy?"

Belle only smiled over her shoulder at him, enjoying his expression of puzzlement... and perhaps nervousness. At the kitchen table, she arranged him as he'd arranged her, on their first night. "Bend over and hold onto the table ledge." she directed, meeting his eyes. Both of his eyebrows were raised.

"It's undignified." he said.

"Oh.... _really_ , dearie? Actually, before you're in position, I'll need you to drop your trousers." She almost laughed when she said it, but managed to keep her mirth to a smile. She pressed her lips together when he inclined his brow at her again.

"You do know that I'm the Dark One."

Belle glanced meaningfully at his crotch. "I _know_." she said. Making a stern face, she added, "And that's _bad_. _So_ bad."

After a moment of regarding her, curiously, he pushed the trousers down to his knees, where they were tucked into his boots.

"And, " Belle bit her lip, "The waistcoat and shirt will need to go."

He complied with that as well, making Belle want to clap her hands at her success. She smiled broadly. Clearing his throat, he bent over, spreading his arms wide to grip the table's edges.

"Like this, dearie?" he asked, peering up at her, awkwardly, curls dangling in his face.

Quite breath-taken, Belle said, "Yes."

She walked around the table, pausing to observe him well from behind. She _felt_ his skin become sensitized as she stood quietly, simply looking at his long back, the tense, taut spread of his arms. The muscles of his bum, rounded and bunched in this position... strain showed at his shoulders and thighs.

"Getting your fill, dearie?" he asked, head on the table.

Belle hesitated, then gave him a little smack on one cheek. She smiled as his muscles flexed. "Hush, you."

Circling to the other side of the table, she kept her back to him as she perused the kitchen. She selected her biggest wooden spoon, from the various utensils she kept in a big, ceramic jar.

"Oh, dearie. You _cook_ with that. After a fashion. We _eat_ food you cook with that."

Belle faced him with a shrug. "It'll wash. How can you be fussy? You drink... _raw blood_. Which is _bad_."

"Ah."

Belle was enjoying herself. She circled again... she was a predator. She used the spoon to tap at his inner thighs, urging them apart, as far as the trousers that trapped him would allow. She allowed gentle brushes against the parts of him that dangled. She couldn't quite bring herself to _hit_ him.

Eventually she sighed, and hoisted herself onto the table, sitting beside his prostrate form, her feet dangling. She pet lightly over his back and buttocks, traced the sharp relief of his shoulders, and said, "This is a failure. I can't do it, Rumpel."

He stayed in position, looking up at her, sideways, from the table.

"I wish you would, dearie."

Startled by his words, the lushness in his voice, Belle said, "You do?"

"I'd rather your hand than the spoon, but yes. I wish you would. _Hard."_

Belle inhaled, watching him roll his hips a bit, easing tension. "I'm bad." he reminded her. "So bad, dearie. You can't let it stand."

"I... "

_"Belle."_

She heard the urgency in his voice, the need.... perhaps it was better not to tease him to anger twice in one day. And he was presented so... prettily. She toyed with his hair, and when her fingers moved to his mouth, he kissed them.

With another sigh, she stood again, taking her measure of him. She remembered that she'd been most sensitive on the under-curve of her bum; tantalized at her inner thighs; teased and yet soothed at the small of her back. For a long while she only raked her fingertips over these places, excited by Rumpelstiltskin's little moans and movements.

Then she slapped him. It was a hard slap on the under-curve of his left cheek, which was much firmer and more spare than she. Nothing jiggled. Rumpelstiltskin moaned, gripping the table, and Belle said, "Ow!" staring at her hand. It brought a snigger from Rumpelstiltskin.

"No laughing." Belle said, and smacked the other cheek. She waved her hand about, easing the sting. Rumpelstiltskin moaned again, hips grinding.

Still husky, he said, "Alright, dearie. Use the bloody spoon. We can't have you breaking your hand on my bony arse."

"Well, that was two." Belle said. "How about just one more."

"I need more than that." he said, gruff.

".... Oh.... How much more?"

Peering at her over his shoulder, he said, "I don't know, love. Keep going until I'm properly punished."

Belle eyed the spoon warily, and felt a bit swoony at the handprints she'd left on each cheek... a dark, ruddiness on his coppery-green skin.

"I've marked you." she said.

That brought a gasp of sorts from Rumpelstiltskin, a groan, " _unhhh_..."

"You... Like that?" Belle asked.

"Yes. _Yes_. Please Belle... Why must you make me _beg?"_

Well... He'd made _her_ beg...

Soothing his lower back with her fingertips, she smacked over his buttocks and thighs repeatedly with the spoon. Her hair fell in her face, swinging with her actions. She felt hot... flushed. Rumpelstiltskin showed signs of pain... his body jerked, the table moved with it... his flesh became more and more inflamed. But he moaned and gasped, and his hips sometimes bucked, thrusting into emptiness. When Belle stopped, running her hand lightly over the stung places, he growled, _"... More..."_

"I... Rumpel, your skin will break." Belle said. "I just can't hurt you like that."

"Just a little more, Belle, love, please."

Belle worried at her bottom lip. What was she to do?

Setting the spoon down, she urged him to stand upright.

"No, love." he protested. "I need more... you're not done. We're not _done_."

Taking her instruction from his need, his flushed face, Belle said, "Hush, Rumpel. Do as I say." She said it softly, but it was impactful. He obeyed her at once, standing upright, his face pained; blushing in patches of mauve.

"Give me your hands." she said, standing behind him.

With a sharp inhalation, Rumpelstiltskin brought his hands to his back. Untying her sash of pale, lilac satin, Belle wound it about his wrists, pinning them at the small of his back. She remained behind him, close to his punished, sensitive backside. She raked her fingers over his welts, and he cried out, buttocks clenching, muscles flexing. She did it again, more firmly, and he came briefly to his toes.

"Let me see you, Belle."

"No." she whispered. He affected her, so.

She buried her hand in his hair, grasping at the back of his skull and pulling his head back. She watched him swallow, neck exposed. For a strange moment, she put her hand about his throat, as he did to her, and saw a spasm go through his body.

"Bad dog." she said, addressing his engorged, jumpy cock. Reaching around, she gave it a little slap. Rumpelstiltskin jerked again, but moaned... eyes closed and mouth wide open. Belle kept a firm grip in his hair.

"Do you like this, Rumpel?" She teased and teased, her fingertips moving over heated flesh, his buttocks and thighs; places in agony and places begging for touch. She teased, feather light at his belly.

"Yes!" he whispered, eyes closed, face intense.

She pinched his nipples, rather hard, and he yelped, flinching. Belle, feeling like an actress, jerked back on his hair. Actress or no, she was nearly as overtaken as he. The strain, the tension in his face, his agony of pain and pleasure.... his ardent supplication _pulled_ at her, making her vision hazy with heat. She felt such an intensity of love, affection and lust, she thought she might cry.

Pulling his head back again, she got close to his ear and asked, "Are you mine, Rumpel?"

"Yes!" his voice was a hiss.

She ran her hand down the front of his body, pressed close to his back, and encircled his cock. It was so hot, so hard.

"Poor thing," she crooned at his ear. "Poor baby."

She stroked him, breathing against him, closing her eyes as his cries and moans worked her, squeezing her insides. When he came, his cry was nearly a sob. His back arched, his legs strained violently against the trousers; his body tensed like a bow, and then released, his cock jumping in her hand as it spurted.

"Good boy," Belle whispered. "You're my good boy."

She released his hair, and he gasped in what Belle realized _was_ a sob. Horrified, she moved around, facing him.

"Rumpel?"

He magiced away the sash restraint with less than a thought, leaving Belle momentarily struck. What an illusion her control had been... He'd given it to her... He'd wanted her to take it.

His face was wet, and Belle brought her hand to it, tears forming in her own eyes.

"I'm sorry." she whispered.

He only shook his head, negating her. Belle touched his pouting, bottom lip, and then he grasped her hand in his, kissing it feverishly. Falling to his knees, he held her close, hands digging into her hips, circling her completely. Over and over he kissed against her belly, and Belle stared down at him, wholly amazed.

 


	15. Belle's Dream

Belle was long in her bed with a book, words blurring and her hand warm on her lower belly, when Rumpelstiltskin came in. He was quiet, meeting her eyes. His eyes looked hollowed, and a little spooked.

"Rumpel..."

"Belle. My love."

"Are you okay?"

"I am, dearie."

He began undressing, and Belle watched. His eyes were downcast, his face somber as he worked buttons at his wrists and collar, down his abdomen. He unbuttoned partway down, then pulled the shirt over his head, reaching his arms behind. Belle wondered why he always did that.

Shirtless, he sat on the edge of the bed, undoing buckles on his boots. Belle watched his ribs, the ripple of his vertebra as he bent over. His shoulder blades, back narrowing into trousers. Then he stood, and the trousers came down and off.... That vulnerable stance, bending over and stepping out of legs of leather..... Belle swallowed to see the welts on his backside.

He turned to the bed, still sated and flaccid, and Belle threw back the covers. She put her book away and opened her arms, letting out a long breath as he crawled in and settled down against her.

Fretful, she murmured, "Do you still love me? ... Do you still _like_ me?"

He nuzzled her breasts, burrowing in the soft flannel of her simple gown. Looking up at her, he cocked his head. "Of course I do, dearie. I'm yours, forever."

Belle exhaled again, scooting down in the bed and wrapping herself around him. Stroking his hair, his back, she began to drift into sleep.

For as heavy and drowsy as she'd felt, sleep came light and shallow. Belle was restless in her sleep, making small sounds and moving against Rumpestiltskin, who watched her. He kissed her fretful lips and squeezed her breasts, then opened the gown and suckled her, as she shifted about in sleep.

It was different, now... it felt different. In the dark of the low fire, in the quiet, he was voyeur, abductor; the imp-goblin-monster who leched himself upon her. He took pleasure in it. Wriggling his fingers inside her drawers, under the cloth, her played with her, smiling at her moans; the twisting and arching of her body. He brought his bloodied hand to his mouth and licked, sucked, stroking himself.

Sating himself quickly, growling as he came, he lay for a time with his hand over his heart. Belle still whimpered, almost speaking. She dreamed, he knew. The blood-tide that took him was taking her, too.

His breathing became even, and he rolled to his side, folding himself to her. He was so skinny and spare; she, so luscious; curved and warm in his arms, against his body. Feeling her restless sleep, he fell into a fairly deep sleep; looking to find her there.

 

In her dream, Belle was a very little girl. She had brothers. Warm, rolling, playful... puppy-like brothers. They were all dark; dark haired, dark eyed. They laughed at the things she said and did. She frowned sternly with her little girl face, and shook her finger at a dark, bearded man. "No _ma'am_ , daddy." she said, and the brothers broke apart, laughing. The daddy, a dangerous looking man, showed white teeth in the dark beard, smiling. They all called her by another name.

That was not her father... her true self had no siblings... Her thoughts on this matter began to dissolve, to change with the dream. She looked for a mother, but was motherless, it seemed, in both places.

She returned to the flagstones of the inner courtyard, in the blazing sun. She was herself, but wilder. She was heedless of what anyone could ever think of her. Looking up at the blank windows of the Dark Castle, she pulled off the ragged dress she wore, and was bare beneath. She lay on the hot flagstones, bare feet soaking in heat through the soles, the palms of her hands flush to stone. She opened her legs.

"Dark One," she whispered. Then, in nursery singing, " _Rumpelstiltskin... Rumpelstiltskin... Rumpelstiltskin...."_ For it must be spoken three times.

Now she saw herself from above. It was a shock; the dream wavered. The paleness of a naked woman against the grey stone, in such bright light. Her dark hair spilled out, darker hair between her legs. He was coming to her, and she was seeing it from _above_. Whose eyes did she look through?

In the heat, sweat dampened her hair at the nape of her neck. It was tricking down from the backs of her knees, dampening her brow. She felt the heat of the sun between her legs, a melting sort of penetration, and knew she bled.

He was naked. Oh, how his skin glittered in the blaze of light. In such light his skin was almost the color of human flesh, but was changeable, shifting with his swagger... sometimes more copper and sometimes more olive. It was strange to see him from above, the movement of swagger a suggestion under shoulders and the crown of his head. He crouched down between her legs, moving his arms beneath her knees. He lifted her hips to his mouth and licked. He drank.

Then she was once more that other Belle, the lone girl in a family of dark, dangerous men. She was older, and loved a wizard. Her brothers teased her, but her father was angry. The puppy-like brothers really _were_ pups... they were wolves. They _ran_... All like timber wolves, two in motley grey and russet, one was all black. She watched, again, from above, seeing her brothers move like liquid through the forest. She realized, then, she was _flying._

She'd thought her observer self to be disembodied, a spirit... but no; she was a bird. She _felt_ the flight, and wanted to shout, joy filling her chest and throat, ticklish in her belly. The air was a live thing. It had substance, like water. It was buoyant beneath her, and her bird's eyes saw the currents, the pathways of air that sped her along. She swooped and dipped... the sheer speed of it, the whooshing of wind and blurring of trees made her fearful and excited. Such motion, such movement... she and her dark brothers.

It changed again, and she was alone in the forest... A thick, dense woods. She thought it was day, but the light was blocked by the heavy canopy above. She was a woman, and finely - though oddly - dressed. Her bodice was shiny-black, stiff lace at her throat, where there was also a polished stone of cloudy black. The sleeved were tight and restrictive, satin ribbon and lace at the cuffs hanging nearly to her fingertips. The skirt, in sharp contrast, was made of broad, vertical black and white stripes. They spread out about her; bright, clean white and deep black, rustling as she walked on a leaf littered, hard packed ground.

All around, on a forest floor full of roots and rocks, mushrooms and mosses, were some sort of little creatures. Belle had no idea what they were. Faeries? She'd always thought faeries would look like people, and these creatures didn't.... exactly. They were quite small, perhaps the size of blue-jays. They were sometimes a bit translucent, yet often solidly present. They ranged in color from dusty blue to a pale, rust red, to brown or ivory, like fallen leaves. Their tiny, skinny bodies were people-like, as well as their odd heads with overly large, perhaps insect-like eyes.... But they were decidedly inhuman.

Each time Belle moved, swishing her skirts in a noisy way, they all gasped and froze in place. If she smiled, they all fell over, laughing hysterically while holding their bellies; concave, or oddly swollen, given their twig-like limbs.

When she walked fast, they ran; some of them holding onto the hem of her skirt and gaining a free ride. Some appeared almost to fly in spurts, low to the ground, but Belle didn't see any wings.

They were speaking in some fast paced, chattering language. Belle didn't know the language, and yet it seemed she and the creatures could understand on another.

She came to the edge of the forest, and her heart leapt within the cage of her chest. She wanted to cry out, as she had wanted to, in flight. Beyond the trees was the long vista that was the Deadlands; waving grasses, rocks, and clusters of rolling hills; all of it raced to the hulking, black ship that was the Dark Castle. The sun was setting; the sky behind the castle was blood red, streaked with midnight blue and purple.

_Home_ , Belle thought, now understanding that the wizard she loved was Rumpelstiltskin. She felt such love, such relief.... the dream landscape now made sense; she was found. She began to step out of the shelter of the trees, but all of the little creatures, little _things_ , were suddenly talking all at once. It was like a forest erupted into bird chatter. Their talk was very fast and furious... they held the hem of her skirt, leaning backwards to keep her from leaving the forest. Some waved their arms and shook their heads, eyes big and serious, little mouths making _Os_... _nooooo..._

 

Her landscape shifted again. She wore the same, strange dress, but she was her wild self; the one who called the Dark One. Her hair spilled out around her face and shoulders, and was tangled; full of leaves, twigs... feathers? The hem of her fine dress was ragged, in tatters, and she felt her nakedness, beneath.

She was in the Deadlands with Rumpelstiltskin, on top of a barrow. She sat between his legs, and he held her from behind, his hands possessive on her body. She remembered something... It was hard to put it together, for she realized there was more than one Belle... she wasn't sure how many there were. They were all wakeful in this spirit place, where she travelled, and they were all sharing thoughts, memories.

I am a Goblin Queen, she thought, leaning fondly against her Goblin husband. Was he her husband? The little creatures that she'd loved so well in the forest... Perhaps they were goblins.

Rumpelstiltskin could hear her when she didn't speak... or maybe she's spoken. He said, "Those are our children."

Children? Belle tried to say she'd never had any children. She'd never conceived... she only bled. She looked at the wind-blasted landscape all around... maybe her body was a hinterland.

"We made them." Rumpelstiltskin breathed at her ear. "It's magic, dearie. Spillage, overflow. The cost of it. My seed, your blood. They're born in the wilderness. They find us... by scent, and dream."

Turning to look at him, Belle was startled by his closeness. His large, staring eyes, so full of quartz and light for one so dark. His clothing was deep brown, all motley and ragged. He wore a cloak of owl feathers, brown and white.

"But they're afraid of you." she said. She felt protective of the little things.... shifty little things... Were they leaves, birds, twigs, children...? Were her babies being hatched from eggs?

He nodded. He rubbed his long nose against hers. He nuzzled and scented.

"I'm a monster, dearie. Children fear monsters."

 

She lost him, then. She felt a wail being born in her chest, a keening protest... she didn't think she could live without him.

Before she could cry out at his sudden absence..... the darkness and altered time it created... She found herself back with her brothers and her father, Another Belle.

This one dressed more sensibly, warmly. She had, within herself, a sense of safety, strength. She'd always been amongst these wolves, and whatever it was that made up her dark, bearded father. She could fly... she was a bird. She had no fears.

And still... She felt her insides twist with something like fear; a reckoning of the unknown. She was in the doorway of a cottage, where she lived with her family of animal-people. Her youngest brother pointed, and Belle looked into the trees.

She couldn't really tell what she looked at... it emerged from the trees... big, stiff-legged; a dog-like body, but a face that seemed somewhat human. It had huge, round, glowing yellow eyes.

He brother said, "Let it in!"

Belle was horrified, but frozen. Before she could react, her brother had opened the door, wide. Confusion set in... what crossed over the threshold was only a dog. It was a big, black dog, puppy-like on long, gangly legs. It's eyes still glowed, amber and warm.

"It's just your wizard." her brother said.

The dog's long tail wagged... it knocked things over, it made chaos. It was forceful when it whacked against her legs. She scratched it's head, and looked to the open door.

On the rather rickety, wooded porch were the little _things_ , seemingly left in the dog's wake. They were all clustered together. "Can you see them?" Belle asked of her brother, but he didn't seem to hear her. He was crouched on the floor, scratching the dog all about it's head and neck. The long tail wagged, the huge front paws stepped up and down, in place; a dance. But the eyes, rolling in it's lumpy skull, looked at Belle.

The little things... were they more goblins? Children? They were shifty like the others, but looked different. They were all dark brown.... one moment they looked like a cluster of baby birds, with too-big, crested heads. Then they looked like a squirming mound of baby... dragons? Then merely a pile of old leaves, left by the dog's paws. Sometimes they seemed so unspeakably _cute_ to Belle, like a basket full of kittens. She wanted to scoop them all up. Then she was struck with a sense of menace... unable to get a handle on the solid shape, nature of them... maybe there were sharp little teeth and needle-like claws.

Then the porch was filled with actual birds. The little brown sparrows and wrens might have been echoes of the _things_ , but there were also cardinals, blue-jays, chickadees, hopping towhees... As she stared at the sudden gathering, the black dog stood still beside her, and softly licked her hand.

 


	16. Rumpelstiltskin's Dream

There was a sense of ground rushing beneath, though he couldn't see it. He was aware of the thoughts of the villagers, far away.

Owls. They were only birds; like cats, they kept the vermin down. But they were not beloved. Their faces, an arrangement more human than bird, their silent flight, their wakefulness at night... it all condemned them. The villages had thoughts of witches, sorcerers, evil spirits... evil doers... hiding in the bodies of owls. Spying on them. Bringing darkness.

They weren't always wrong.

The Deadlands was inhabited by owls. They nested at the tree-line; some burrowed in hillocks. At night they swept over the grasslands, rich in voles, moles, mice rabbits... Sometimes one or more could be seen in the day, atop a barrow, a rough-cut stone, staring. A spirit, perhaps, at it's burial site.

... Rushing, rushing, rushing movement beneath, but he couldn't see it, even with the owl's nighttime eyes. Sometimes, within the bird, there was a period of darkness. He was the intruder, the guest. It took a moment to acclimate, and be welcome.

Like Belle, the owls were open.

A soft whisper, a caress... and he could slip inside.

Vision returned; his flight was over water. The water rushed as his silent flight rushed, and both sky and water were dark. There were stars... brilliant, twinkling; disorienting if looked at too long. The stars could be seen in the water... one could lose the way.

 

The formless place that was yet a place. A place in the beginning of so many myths... the inside of the egg, or the monstrous body of a hybrid deity; split apart to sill out worlds.... day and night, earth and sky; waters made of spilled blood and tears. We eat our pasts, we live on them.

Deities, invisible, filling up multiple worlds. Brooding over dark, formless water, as a hen broods over her eggs... hatching worlds, incubating worlds.

Magic is creation; transformation.

 

This is a dream, Rumpelstiltskin thought. I dream of the owl and the place of chaos, but I'm not there. I didn't journey there, holding my intent like a precious stone. Like an egg. I'm a tourist.

 

It was her writing, he knew it. But he couldn't stop it. He was _compelled_. He played his role, wondering what would happen.

It was another place of water. A lake, this time, but so vast... the other side was only a suggestion, lost in mist.

Belle was there. His heart had a small seizure. He was a bad man; his heart was black and diseased. It made love _hurt_. It was painful. His hand massaged his chest, over his heart.

She sat at the end of a long dock. Her legs, pale in twilight, dangled to the water but did not reach. Bare legs, bare feet, her skirt bunched up about her thighs. Her eyes searched the water.

He felt it, then. The thing in his pocket. As it was written (as ever shall be). He'd brought her a gift. He was a giver of gifts.

She looked up at his approach, and she smiled at him. His desire was such that it filled the lake... the waters became troubled with it. Choppy little waves and ripples below the docks, in the mist and shadow. The palest of stars, ghost stars, lingering in the sky.

Sitting cross-legged beside her, he pulled it out of his coat pocket. In his hand; his big, horrible, black-clawed hand; it was grotesque. Why had he thought to give this to her? He'd called it an egg... this was his intent; a spark of magic, the beginning of creation, over which he'd brooded. In his hand, it was something aborted.

The shape, though imperfect, was an egg. But it was more flesh than shell. It has visceral signs of life, better kept on the inside. Veins, and artery that made even himself squeamish. It pulsed... Somehow, though it seemed it should still incubate, it lived.

His stomach turned, but Belle cupped her hands around it, hovering over his hands with a soft, " _Ohhhhh..."_

Perhaps the girl simply liked monsters.

He would give her jewels, rooms... _gardens_ full of flowers, dresses and books and every comfort, every amusement she could ever want. Why was he giving her _this_?

She looked up at him. She was dewy. He wanted to lick her, like sweet cream. He blue eyes were dark, her lips; so full and soft and the color of a blush. His heart hurt and his insides battled... She should be free, happy. She should walk in the sun.

... He would lock her away. No one would ever touch her, take her away. She was _his_. _His_ , forever.

She blew a soft breath over the stunted thing, her cupped hands holding warmth. Rumpelstiltskin watched, amazed, as she worked her spell. She made it _work_... she'd only needed his gift.

The seed. The spark. He'd started the spell, but she would finish it.

The thing glowed, orange-crimson... it settled into an iridescent, blue-lavender... it was his magic, gone solid, in a protective shell. She took it, then, from his hand, and held it in hers. Incubating.

"Thank you." she said.

He stared at her, so pained in all of his want and possessiveness and violence, he could barely breathe.

"This happened, before." she told him. Smiling, she added, "Beings of magic are always attracted to the daughters of men. They can't help it."

Was he a 'being of magic? Was that the same thing as a monster?

He didn't speak it, but Belle said, "It's the same. Both are alien... If a god appeared amongst the people, he would be a monster."

"I'm no god, dearie."

"I know." she smiled again. "I _know_ you."

She kissed the egg.... It was very nearly erotic. The lingering of her lips.... she breathed upon it. Looking at him under lowered eyelashes, she said "You want to _feel_."

It could be terrible to be in her presence. It threatened him. She could break him.

He wore scales and armor, he wore magic, and laughed and capered at death, bloodshed and horror. As though it were no more to him than spilt milk. A trifling merriment. For what he must do in his endless lifetime; for the power he must jealously hoard, holding it dear; it was better not to _feel_.

But wanted to feel. Things.. feelings... wanted out of his corrupted body. Out of his spirit, if it lived. They wanted release from his dark heart. He wanted to howl his loss. Loss. Lost. Lonely. _Howl._

And he wanted what she freely gave him... human touch, caring. Shelter for his... feelings.

She would strip his armor, she would know his secrets. She would break him.

He watched her with the egg, wondering what it would become. When it's newly hardened armor cracked, what would be inside?

 

He watched her when she didn't know... He always had. He spied on others... it was what he did, part of his darkness. One must know. Be informed.

He was not Regina; he didn't rely on others.

But his power, the Dark One's power, was ever-fed and ever-regenerated; the small, everyday magic cost little.

He spied on Belle and on _himself._ He didn't like to see himself... it was unsettling. There he was, a monster, naked and fully aroused; it's hands, it's mouth on soft, vulnerable Belle.

He felt sick, disgusted. He felt excited, his body taut with slick, honed anticipation. He breathed through parted lips, tongue pressed to his bottom teeth, empathetic to the monster who tasted her. His tongue swelled. He wanted.

And Belle... gave. In her nakedness, her inexplicable desire for him, for the monster who suckled her... she was wide open. Arms thrown back overhead; throat, full breasts, soft belly... all exposed, all could be torn open. She had no armor to protect her.

Her legs were open, and he fed from her, no longer watching. He could get inside, She would let him. He gripped her thighs, opening her, tongue lapping and seeking. He felt her trembling, tasted her arousal in her blood, but was helpless to his new hunger. The hunger was overpowering, and it was making him mad. But it was making him stronger, too. Belle nourished the man; her blood fed the demon.

 

He was alone, his immediate surroundings faded. He'd fed, and now he travelled afar, without movement. Without an owl. The feeding had opened the door.

He traveled to that other world, that other realm, where Orion was in the sky; his belt a beacon, the nebula low at his side, the dying star bright in it's long, long end days. The Dog Star followed.

A ghost of Rumpelstiltskin, an invisible shade, stood on a dark ground and stared up at stars, picking out the Hunter. The stars seemed so close to the earth... he thought they sang, a music like a circulatory system, a nervous system. The sang as blood sang in un-named temples. A river of pearly white arced across the dark sky, illuminating colors of plum, mauve and deep blue. The blood of the sky? The dark spell that was his seed and Belle's blood?

He had not before considered Belle as... an ingredient.

Looking from stars to earth, Rumpelstiltskin felt an onslaught of _sight_ , that derelict gift he'd so roughly stolen.

It was, as always, hopelessly multilayered, spanning time and; now, he thought; worlds. Human lives, and lives of... spirits? Of land? It couldn't be sorted, even less so than Belle's writing could be sorted, so he let it wash over him. Dream travel, dream sight; all of it birthed by blood.

There was a battlefield. He'd seen those, before, and knew the horror. He'd run from that horror, and then saved others from it as the Dark One. Churned and razed ground, muck and mud and smoke, acrid and greasy... slick with blood. Flesh, bone; the unimaginable stench of lives ended... slippery viscera and puddles of fly infested blood, all seeping into mud and ash. Bowels spilled from opened bellies... brains squishing through shattered skulls. The nightmare of it that will haunt forever. The dead, staring eyes of ruined bodies; the terror and helpless _illness_ of realizing that some, senseless or not, still breathed.

Oh no... nothing new, here. Events completely outside of a man's control, taking over, saying whether he will live or die... and _how_ he will die. But he's _taken_ control... it was such a battlefield that had begun his long journey.

The only thing that made this one different was.... the feathers. They were everywhere. Some ruined but recognizable; some whole and perfect, floating on smoke filled air. The bodies on the ground, as well... many showed a breakage of bone, a sickening rending of flesh from bone, and the seeping of marrow, red and yellow, at the break. The bones were huge, curved, sail-like structures. Wings.

There was a confusion of sight... Rumpelstiltskin's spirit sight took in the vast field of ruin and destruction, but then began to flit about. It hovered overhead, it zoomed close to a body, a face. It parted masses of flies, startled battle crows and vultures, and recoiled at maggots, beetles... the squirming larvae that fed on death.

The armor worn by many, both leather and a dull, beaten metal, included helms in animal and birds forms. Raptor heads, wolf heads... at first sight he thought a race of bird-men was slaughtered. But as his spirit saw more closely, where visors were up or helms destroyed, the faces were those of men. Winged men.

On a far hill, less than a dozen men stood, looking at the long field of blood and gore. It has too much power, Rumpelstiltskin thought. There will be a temple.

Though he couldn't really make out individual traits among them, he could see they were all battle-worn, wounded. Maybe the last of the dying. They had been winged, the wings on most in tatters. If they'd taken fight, before, they never would again.

One of them shone like a beacon in his _sight._ One, so close to death, others held him up so he could view the destruction wrought... by himself? Upon himself? He glared, lifeblood draining, but Rumpelstiltskin saw that he would yet live. He was the Dark One.

The realization was felt in his body, where the Dark One now lived, and it stole all of his breath. _I am dreaming_ , he reminded himself; but it didn't stop the struggle to draw breath, clawing at an invisible, insubstantial throat. It also didn't stop the force with which he was suddenly hurtling backwards. In space? Time? It felt as if something, just behind his navel, was roughly tugged... and then he was moving so rapidly, air parting like water and roaring around him.

Rapid-fire, he saw things.

The Dark One, the man/creature on the hill. Still whole, a hybrid thing with great, dark wings; he knelt before a beautiful, dark-haired woman. He held out hands that glowed with light.

_I bring you the gift of magic._

He saw himself, again, approaching Belle at the dock, but the sky was black with storms, the water churned. As far as he could make out, small heads with dark eyes dotted the rough surface, looking to Belle. _Seals? Merfolk? (Undines?)_

He came to her, aware of the egg in his pocket.

He was in the library, almost laying in her lap; he agreed to teach her witchcraft.

And then there was Belle, alone in the Deadlands, but for owls. Head cocked, she was _listening_.

 

The movement stopped, and he had no idea where he was. Moving light surrounded him.... it seemed to live. It spoke in hushed toned, and he didn't know the words.

It was beside him, now. The Dark One. Was it no longer within him? It was so tall, shoulders so broad, and now Rumpelstiltskin felt _alone_. As he had not done in many a year, he felt he was just a wee man. A small, perhaps wily, but vulnerable man. A spinner. He smelled of sheep. He was a shadow, staying out of the way.

The Dark One was menacing, but handsome. Beautiful, even. Why did it radiate such beauty, and yet it had changed him, so? Made him a monster, on the outside, for all the world to see... to hate.

It's form was a tall, well built man who yet had a face almost like a girl's. But for the strong chin, the chiseled jaw. His eyes were large and green, cat-like. His mouth full and soft; his hair rippled back from a smooth, marbled forehead in waves of burnished gold.

The wings that rose and _hummed_ behind him were inky black. Crow feathers... black and yet reflecting other colors. Every cell of this being was filled and vibrating with magic. It created with thought... it travelled no further than within itself with it's intent. It _was_ the place of chaos... That place lived within it.

The world, perhaps, would not stand for it. The world of Orion.

Stupefied, afraid to look down at himself lest see human flesh, peasant clothing, Rumpelstiltskin stared. The thing, in it's pure form, was _too_ powerful. Too much. The green cat's eyes could simply burn through Rumpelstiltskin, and his soul would be erased. _Poof._

Instead, the being made a clearing through... cloud cover? Through layers of atmosphere...? His glowing hand cut a path though the darkness, so that Rumpelstiltskin was squinting, shielding his eyes with his hands. He stared down into brightness that eventually settled into sky and land. The land resolved into a city, but a city such as he'd never seen before.... Streets were lined with buildings like gigantic blocks, stacked upon one another, shutting out the sky. People were everywhere, moving. There was organization to it, like ants on the march.

His vision narrowed to a small section of street.... moving objects, blaring that came to him faintly, light bouncing off of stone and steel; a roar that was the voice of thousands. A young, dark haired man loped along a walk-way. His clothing was odd, his head was partly hooded, cowled. He glanced over his shoulder, as if followed, eyes so dark under furrowed brows.

_Baelfire._

 


	17. Snow

Belle no longer bled. Did it mean Rumpelstiltskin no longer had use for her?

Women in the kingdom called it 'the curse'. Sort of funny, considering her paramour... The women were not the most optimistic lot regarding the workings of the body; those allowing for creation.

Well, maybe it _was_ a curse. Maybe she was cursed, as Rumpelstiltskin was. One damn moon-tide... and he was changed, forever.

Gods. _Shit_.

He'd wanted her _inside_ of him. She couldn't forget the animal urgency of his need.... and yet, his aggression in needing to feed from her... in wanting her, _taking_ her. Her body burned for him.

But he did not burn for her, it seemed. Her bleeding done, he was almost the creature she'd first arrived with. Cordial, odd. Demanding of his time alone, shooing her off with rapidly waving hands, head nodding at her protests.

Once, he took her chin, her jaw between his thumb and fingers. It was such a gentle caress, and so proprietary, Belle froze with anticipation. His eyes were large and full... of something Belle could not name. But then he'd released her, looking away. He muttered something about being busy, and waved her off, blindly, walking away from her.

She wanted to have a tantrum. She wanted to step into a pair of his ridiculous boots and stomp to wake the dead. It wasn't _fair_. When he was wound tight with need, she gave him succor. She didn't dismiss him like a child. Like the maid.

Sometimes he didn't even come to bed. He was up all night in the smoky, storm and honey scented tower room, doing whatever it was he did. He was there by day as well, unless he was at his spinning wheel. When he spun, now, his eyes stayed far away, dark circles and puffy skin beneath. There was no pipe, no tea. The food she brought him remained untouched.

When he did come to bed, it was already morning. He undressed like a sleepwalker, often leaving on his shirt. He burrowed under covers, one hand brushing against Belle, and slept so heavily, he never moved. The crease remained between his eyebrows, his face troubled. he made soft moans, sometimes grunting in his sleep, and Belle watched him.

She loved him, so. She wanted to soothe him, to help him. But he wouldn't let her.

Knowing she wasn't welcome, she nevertheless intruded upon the tower room. The ceiling was barely visible, concealed by the lilac-blue smoke of his magic. She'd hugged him from behind, pressing her forehead between his shoulder blades. She felt like Chloe, the insistent push of that little cat skull, seeking affection. Her hands moved over his torso, and she felt his body relax in increments.

"... Love..."

"You promised to teach me witchery." Belle said. Surely the reminder of a promise, an agreement, would bring him back to her. It was the stuff he was made of.

"I... " he sounded pained. "I will, Belle."

"But not today?"

"Not today."

_What_ day, Belle wanted to know. When? When would this newfound loneliness come to an end? She hated the way it felt... she felt so agitated and weak. She knew she could be just fine with her own company... she could read, she could go outdoors and discover. She'd always been peaceful with her own thoughts and imaginings, not really needing others.

It was different, now. She felt like she might be missing an organ. It _hurt_. To distract herself, she considered words and phrases in writing and common tongue: heartache, heart _break_... a heavy heart. Why the organ that sent her blood all over her body should be the victim of all of this pain was a mystery to Belle, but it was true. The place she felt pained was in her chest... achingly hollow, yet so often heavy. It hurt to stand upright, to breathe. This, then, was the thing people felt when they wrote tomes of sorrowful poetry... stretched on the graves of their beloved, shocked senseless by a betrayal, hopelessly lost in a feeling unrequited.

Or, like herself, she thought, they were awash in the drug that was the beloved, living and breathing by it's power. And then it was taken away. This was withdrawal. Her heart felt it, her body felt it, both listless and yet restless. Her limbs ached, and her _sex_... she wished she could just make it go away. Go numb. It harried her, and seemed to weep and stay wet, even when her thoughts were not turned to pleasure. If she made herself come, the relief only lasted a few seconds. Sometimes it led to tears. Her body wanted Rumpelstiltskin; his mouth, his fingers and cock. His scent and voice. Her body wanted the violence of having him inside of her, moving so fast. Her muscled clenched with the thought... What had he done to her?

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She bundled up in layers of wool and flannel, heavy boots and a fur-lined cloak. She planned to go no further than the outer courtyard, but once there, it was too cold to just stop and sit. Her breath made ice crystals in the wool scarf that nearly covered her face, and her eyes stung. For the moment it wasn't snowing, but snow lay thick over everything, by turns sparkling or soft with shadow. The sky was overcast... to Belle the clouds looked like a steady rippling of waves in water; but soft and pearlescent. Heavy and grey.

She didn't look back to the tower, her insides locked in bitterness.

Bitterness was new for Belle, and didn't come easily. She wanted to cast it off... it's vile taste and feel.

She passed through the outer gate, half expecting to be arrested by magic. A pang of guilt hit her.. he trusted her. He trusted her to chose as he desired, and had not locked her in.

But he was gone, now; and she, a useless thing, who had been used. She was aware that people in town called her the Dark One's Whore... she'd never cared. For pity's sake, they'd said it before she'd ever _known_ him. That way. Or herself, for that matter.

Now it hurt. She wondered if it was true... after all, he'd never asked her to be his wife. She'd never cared about that, either. She'd thought that what happened between men and women, (or monsters and women), was private and individual. Talk was only that - talk. It wasn't relevant to truth.

She wondered if she'd deluded herself. Maybe there was a reason that all of the old wives and nurses and governesses and _mothers_ warned about giving one's heart, and especially one's body too freely. Maybe she'd nurtured an illusion, and becoming disillusioned was the source of her pain.

She cried as she walked; _stomp, stomp, stomp_ ; heavily exerting herself in snow. She cursed... her tears froze, as did her snot. For all of her warm layers, her skirts and cloak still trailed in snow, becoming wet and heavy, collecting crystals. She walked rather blindly, each step heavier than the last.

By the time she reached the hollow hills, her thoughts were as dark as she'd ever known them to be. This was a mistake, she thought. This trek into the cold, into the lands of the dead. But... It was hard to care. It had occurred to her that she could lay down, curl up in all of her warm things and simply _sleep_. Escape herself and the hurt. She wanted to... it was the first thing in days and days she'd wanted more than she wanted Rumpelstiltskin. It was refreshingly clear. If she slept and never woke, well... that was hard to care about, too.

It was then that the snowy owl swooped down before her, landing a few feet away. It's wings were barely a whisper, and the world was already in a hush and silence of snow. It blended to the land, nearly hidden in plain sight, but for it's eyes.

The feathers at it's throat made a steady pulse, a ticking as it watched her, and Belle couldn't help but see it as annoyance. Assessment of her folly. Tired beyond reason, she swayed on her feet.

"If you care," she said, looking in yellow eyes, feeling her own eyes start to close, "then you'll come get me."

It's all she could manage. She crumpled, already mostly asleep. A distant part of herself thought; well, that's a little dramatic. But that voice, if it was hers, was far away.

 

 

He was back in that cloak of owl feathers.... Where on earth did that come from? Belle knew he owned no such garment, no more than a cloak of ermine, mink or fox. He was ostentatious for certain, but not especially _fluffy_.

She giggled, and he tilted his head at her, white and tawny feathers moving all about his head, waving at his shoulders. He was something of a diva.

"Oh, it's funny, dearie?"

"No." But she was smiling. Her face hurt.

A sudden panic hit her, and she looked all around. Snow, everywhere. Shadows lengthening under the barrows... the tree-line hazy. Bare branches of black and white, like the owl, reaching from shadow.

"Oh, where are they?" she fretted. "Where can they be? They'll be so cold."

"Whoever do you mean, dearie?"

She looked at him, aghast. Her lover. Their father.

"Our children." she said.

 

 

"Fuck's sake, Belle. Wake up."

".... mmph.."

"I swear by every unholy molecule of _evil_ in my body, I will tear you up, dearie. You wanted my attention... You won't be able to sit for weeks."

Belle giggled.

"Oh, it's funny, dearie?"

Wait... she was confused. With great effort, she struggled to sit up. Everything was dark at the edges when she did; her eyes didn't want to stay open. Better to close them and go back to that other Rumpelstiltskin, in the ladies-wear feathers. To those many children... that came from magic.

Her body was rudely jerked upright and shaken, and when she tried to open her eyes again, things were a little more clear.

_This_ Rumpelstiltskin had no ladies-wear. Well, sometimes, what with the lace and embroidery. But not now. Leather, wool, fur. There was a raggedy look about him... not his autumn colors, but colors of mud. He was pissed.

Even so, he pulled her into his arms, and Belle felt and smelled magic. Heat. It shimmered over her skin, her clothes; and then melted into her. The snow beneath her was melting. She clung to Rumpelstiltskin, aware, now, that she'd been shaking; the shaking was giving way to crying as her body warmed.... It didn't make sense.... she wanted her _babies?_

What stupid, _invented_ sorrow was this? She could see them, those strange, little creatures... "Our children..." she snuffled.

Rumpelstiltskin's hands were firm and warm at her back. At her ear, his voice said, "Hush, dearie. Things will be more clear in a moment."

He rocked her to and fro, and he was right. In only moments, her focus returned. The land, Rumpelstilskin, the feeling of living in her own body... all of these things became solid and real. Clear. Even the cold, though her insides were warm, came back with the force of the slap.

"Let's go home and administer your beating." Rumpelstiltskin smiled, his gloved hands making it a happy, whimsical suggestion. Belle was a little distracted; her angst quelled, but she still had a vision of odd, little apparitions.... somehow _hers._

"Yes." she agreed. "Alright."

 


	18. Punishment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not thinking, I posted this chapter without any additional warnings... There have been some really negative comments, and one noted the lack of warnings. First, I apologize to those who were offended by this chapter. This writing has been very free-flow for me, just following where I think the characters go, and; in the context of the story; I really didn't realize how offensive this chapter might be. As to the warnings; as the chapter title might imply, there is harsh treatment/abuse. Again, it's hard for me to see it, wrapped up as I am in the personalities and motivations of this Belle and Rumpelstiltskin, but there is sex that could be seen as non consensual. (One comment described rape... I had not pictured or intended rape, but perception is everything... So be warned.)

Belle hadn't thought he'd be good to his word. He hadn't made time for her in days, for crying out loud. Why should this be different?

Wrong, she amended, finding that she was unceremoniously flung into the childish position of receiving her punishment. The proposed 'beating'.

But Rumpelstiltskin was mad... he wasn't teasing and standing her before mirrors... he wasn't surprising her by switching up his own role, so that he might receive punishment at her hand, shivering with need. Which, Belle thought, would have been more correct.

No. He first dragged her up the stairs, and when his silent irritation fired up her nerves, making her hang back, he hoisted her over his shoulder. The rest of the jostling trip upstairs was made upside down, contemplating the swell of his bum beneath the snug leather of his breeches.

Before Belle could become too distracted with thoughts of his body, she was _dumped_ onto her bed, then rolled over. She fought... Without the tease, the anticipation of his touch, this was just stupid. "You're _not_ my bloody _father_." she all but growled, wrestling against him. Not that her father would _do_ this. It felt good, actually, even in her weakened state. It felt good to pitch her force against him, to meet resistance and struggle with it. It seemed perhaps she'd wanted to fight with him for days... anger, sorrow, confusion; all had been festering within her, with no outlet. It came pouring out, at full force at Rumpelstiltskin.

At one point she even managed to get on top of him, astride, her hands locked to his and her arms struggling to pin him down.

She lost that battle, however, and it was her downfall. His arms were the stronger by far, and he did some quick maneuver with his hips and legs, tangling to her, that toppled her. He sat astride of her, then, but managed to flip her over beneath him. Belle's hands were captured painfully behind her back, held at the wrists, just below her shoulder blades. It was awkward, hurtful; and she couldn't twist her way out of the hold. She couldn't even wriggle into a more comfortable, less hurtful position.

She felt Rumpelstiltskin move to the side of her body, freeing her hips and legs. She bucked and squirmed, legs kicking; but her captured wrists, all but pressing the breath from her body, kept her in place. She felt her skirts pulled up and her bloomers were rudely torn from her body, scraps of linen trapped beneath her. There was no pause, no build... Rumpelstiltskin started slapping the living daylights out of her.

Belle tried very hard to laugh it off. The silliness... the _absurd_ notion that he could simply _do_ this... that he could discipline her at his whim, like a disobedient child. She was a grown woman! It was just _stupid_... beyond stupid.

But it hurt... it was hard to laugh off the physicality of it, anchoring her firmly in her body. (And she had, she realized, been a tad _floaty_ of late.) The slaps came hard and fast, air whooshing between them, fueling the feeling of bees gone mad. Her hips bucked for no other reason than to try and escape, and Rumpelstiltskin threw one leg over hers, growling, "Stay still, dearie." As if this were even a possibility. His hand made the sting, the acutely sharp pain rise higher and higher.

Before Belle knew it, she was crying hard, face pressed into the bedclothes, swallowing sobs and yelps. It seemed Rumpelstiltskin was immune to her pleas and desperation, to the shaking of her body. It was a hateful, humiliating thing, and it seemed as if it went on and on.

And then, finally, it stopped. He released her hands, and - _gods_ \- but it hurt to unfold her arms, to bring them to the front of her body. She felt both relief and protest in her shoulders, her neck and back... she felt like both arms might pop right out of their sockets, and was slow and careful with them.

Rumpelstiltskin's fingers moved lightly at the insides of her thighs... it made her hips shift only a little, waking an onslaught of pain. She gasped, tears still flowing, then felt his fingers in a light stroke at her sex.

"You're wet." he stated, matter of fact.

Belle blinked at tears, turning her head to get away from bedclothes, wet from her crying. She had no desire to move, to look at him. She was mortified by his words, by the truth of them. How _could_ she be wet, after his cold handling of her? The hurt, delivered upon his judgement. How could her body _want_ him?

She felt his weight shift on the bed. He was moving behind her, roughly spreading her legs apart, and it hurt. Everything hurt... his fingers dug into welts, raw and hot, he'd left on her thighs. Belle's body reacted with jumps and then with stillness, trying to find the route out of the sting, the bloody _bees_... how to block it from her mind.

He was viewing his handiwork, she thought; all the while sliding a finger up and down the length of her sex, at the slit. She shivered, hating him for both the pain and the pleasure; hating herself for responding to him.... even to the pain he caused her.

He opened her, fingers at the edges of her vulva, hurtful when the pulled against abused flesh. He opened her in that way that made her feel ashamed and vulnerable, stroking a finger, wet from her sex, around that other opening.

Then, hands firm on her hips, he slid inside of her. His _cock_ , Belle's mind swooned, moving past the pain his clothed body caused against her skin... to the feel of her insides clenching around him, sheathing him. Not speaking, only breathing hard, he fucked her. It sometimes hurt... his cock nudged against some sensitive spot deep inside of her. It made Belle cry out and tilt her hips downward, away from him... He would reign himself in a bit, a pause, before again thrusting hard. Punishing thrusts.

Belle felt as if she was both in the moment, and yet outside of herself. The quiet felt strange. The rocking of the bed, his breath and hers; her occasional gasp when something hurt. Her arms were beneath her, hands curled at her chest, protected from being restrained. Shoulders hunched. Her head sometimes rolled, forehead pressed to the bed.

Her body was building to release, whatever the state of her mind... slick, muscled pleasure, fueled by relief, centered and grew hot between her leg. But Rumpelstiltskin's body over hers, his _leather_ , scraped and tormented and abused where she was raw. He didn't talk to her; he didn't croon and pet. It untethered her somewhat... her body felt, but she also observed.

Before her release came, she felt him tense, his thrusts becoming short, erratic jabs. He pressed close, flush to her body, grinding. Belle felt gratitude to hear his soft moan, the gasping _ohhh_ ; Her observer self was disgusted. So he found release. So he was pleased. He hadn't found her... he'd merely fucked her. Still... the part of her connected to him, rooted in her body and _feeling_ , was glad for it. She felt him swell inside of her, spurting his seed... it was less subtle at this angle; a strange pressure where her body resisted, bore down.

_His seed_ , she thought, and tried to form a solid picture in her mind of what had so worried her, outside. Children, babies. But they were hard to see. They weren't like children or babies at all. _Manikins_.

Rumpelstiltskin lay down over her, letting her body, the give of the bed beneath her, take his weight.

"Oomph..." Belle's breath made an involuntary huff with the shift, but what really sang out was the flesh of her backside. He still ground his hips against her, going soft inside of her. Belle had uncomfortable, dizzying images of razors, talons... knowing her firing nerve endings were exaggerating the damage.

He nuzzled at her neck, pushing into her hair. She felt gratitude again, followed by a feeling of wanting to kick the both of them. Had he planned a lecture for her, a reminder that she was his, that she should obey; an embarrassing illustration of her willful and stupid trek towards death; it left him. Belle began to realize that his breathing was becoming deep, more even.... was he _sleeping_? His weight settled more heavily against her, making breathing difficult.

... Well... what now?

Was she glad? Offended?

"... Rumpel..." she could barely get the name out.

She squirmed, gasping with the pain of it. The stinging was so sharp! She moved her shoulders as much as she could; pushed up with her hips, gritting her teeth through the frightful burn of it. Finally, Rumpelstiltskin made a soft moan... Belle felt his soft, wet slide from her body, and he rolled off of her.

For a few moments she lay still, collecting her breath and adjusting to the cooler air on her heated bum. Then, with a new pins and needles pain in her arms and shoulders, she pushed herself up and looked at him.

He _was_ sleeping!

An unreleased growl of indignation, frustration, _anger_ was painful in her chest. Hell... everything hurt. As if he was innocent of all wrongdoing, he lay on his back, beside her, one arm thrown overhead, lips in a soft pucker as his breath became a light snore. His shirt was rucked up, showing his belly, his deep navel. His trousers were open and pushed down only a little... taut, muscled haunch and that sleeping _thing_ , somewhat harmless looking now, nestled against hip and pubic hair.

Lord... he was all wet. The hair at his groin was matted down with it... his belly, even the leather of his trousers shone with it. All from her. Belle touched her fingertips to his skin, moving them in slickness, feeling the parts of his skin that were smooth, soft; covered in light, invisible down. And the parts that were textured, raised and rough. With a sigh, she turned carefully, gingerly. She curled into her self, facing Rumpelstiltskin. Forehead pressed to his ribs, inhaling his scent, she closed her eyes and.... _crossed over_. To a not-sleep, not-awake.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She'd always felt alone.

She'd found her likeness in books. Others, in story, who didn't fit in. Who felt alone. People didn't understand.

Some of them, girls, either on purpose or in stumbling accident, called for help. Demons, disguised as rescuers. Only the demons could understand... could know them.

Now, in her not-place, she could hear the voices of all of those misfits. She watched their paths, the unerring path to error as they tried, so often in vain, to find where they belonged. A tribe. A kindred spirit.

All of them, her too, were ghosts, trying to pass for the living. It was exhausting. It was funny, too; sad. So many, all thinking and feeling the same thing, and yet all of them alone. Believing in the aloneness.

Belief was everything.

She knew, now, even the barrier of skin, flesh couldn't keep people completely separate. People merged; they became part of one another. A face glimpsed only once, in passing, will reappear in dream.

She heard other voices as well, and they were a part of her. They had always been a part of her, but somehow Rumpelstiltskin's magic had made them their own. He made babies with her, and they were ghosts, too.

They feared him; _devouring father_. Where had she heard that?

It was absurd; wasn't it? A demon and a family of ghosts, all living in a castle in the Deadlands; the castle, itself, haunted by magic. All of them, haunted. Thoughts, feelings, even dreams, all bumping up against one another; in the castle, in the courtyard, the Deadlands. Haunted by owls, and by words.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Belle's body shifted, and she jerked fully awake, the cool air on her backside making her hand rise to her mouth, stifling a cry. Beside her Rumpelstiltskin's body jerked as well, and then he sat up.

"... Belle..." He looked down at her, hands braced on the bed, body hunched.

"Yes."

"Look at me."

She looked up at him, and they both seemed to catch their breath, eyes growing wider. She'd been so filled with doubt, but in that moment, she knew he loved her. It was in his eyes, and it hurt to see it. Light shone from the quartz of his irises, his brow creased and troubled. His mouth looked soft to her.

He turned, a swivel, bringing one knee closer to her. His hand came to her face, stroking her hair back from her brow. Cupping her face with his fingers, he began soothing his thumb between her eyebrows.

... Except it wasn't soothing. The strokes were downward, going against her own, invisible, downy hairs. An irritation built within Belle, something she had not before experienced from his touch.

"Rumpel, no..." she said, drawing back.

His other hand came to cup the back of her head, holding her in place.

"Hush, love."

His thumb persisted, stroking _down, down, down_ ; and Belle did not like it. She squirmed, undaunted by the fresh wave of pain each movement woke in her skin. "Stop it, Rumpel..." she moaned, feeling a wave of nausea rise to her throat. Oh, he was _not_ being nice to her, today.

He wouldn't stop. Somehow, the pressure of his thumb between her brow, the firm, downward stroke, was bringing the nausea. It sickened her throat and brought dark spots before her eyes. It wouldn't stop, and neither would he. When she reached a hand to his wrist, trying to still him, he said, "I'm sorry, love. I know it's uncomfortable.... But I've got to close you off. Shut you down, just a little. You're too _open_ , dearie."

"I don't know what you mean." Belle gasped as another wave of nausea took her.

Everything with Rumpelstiltskin came in waves. Pleasure. Pain. Love. Fear. He was the ocean, always moving around her, over her. Black water... She saw him at the dock...

"Fuck's sake, Belle..."

" _What_?"  
"Stop fighting me. You can't always be so open. It's not safe."

"Oh, Rumpel... I don't understand."

"Just a moment more, love."

His thumb stopped it's torment, and he laid his hand, deliriously warm, over Belle's forehead; over her eyes. The nausea receded, and Belle closed her eyes in relief. She smelled magic, all over his hand. It kept a steady pressure on her head... _plum blossom, honey-rain..._

"When I'm done," he said, a soft amusement in his voice, "I'll work on the other end."

"But what are you _doing_?" Belle asked.

"I told you, dearie. Shutting you down, just a little. Telling whatever wandering spirits you've attracted that the shop's bloody closed. I need a break from all of the busy activity around you... and _in_ you."

He removed his hand, and once more they looked at one another, eyes a little too wide.

"Do you feel more clear, dearie? More like yourself?"

Belle lay still for a long moment, wondering. Then she nodded. Even her vision, her hearing seemed more clear.

"I do."

"Good. Now, roll over."

Funny, Belle thought. She just did it, without question. It didn't occur to her to question him. She rolled to her stomach, chin resting on her forearms, and waited for him to relieve the pain he'd caused her.

He didn't touch her, but she felt the warmth of his hand moving, inches from her flesh. "Ah... Belle..." he said, magic penetrating her skin, warm and rather tingly. "I'm sorry, sweetheart."

"I disobeyed."

A sound of disgust in his voice, Rumpelstiltskin said, "You don't have to _obey_."

Belle gave a look over her shoulder; _really_.... He met her eyes only briefly.

"I _wish_ you would," he admitted. "But you and I have long since stopped being captor and prisoner. You know that, dearie. I worry for you safety... and I wish you wouldn't give me reasons to worry... How does this feel?"

He smoothed his hands over her buttocks, and Belle closed her eyes. "It's nice." she replied.

"No pain?"

Arching into his touch, Belle said, "No. No pain."

Her eyelashes fluttered to hear his purr, but her eyes stayed closed.

"You're still marked." he said, voice husky. His hands kneaded and stroked. As he had earlier, Belle felt him open her again... he held her open, the ticking moments making Belle aware that he looked... but he didn't touch her, other than to resume his kneading.

"Why do you think I'm... open?" Belle asked, hesitant to say the word. Clearly there were parts of her he liked having open. "Open to what?"

"Spirits, mostly, I think. The past." Rumpelstiltskin said. "Maybe magic, too... but untamed. It tries to master you. Spirits seem drawn to you, dearie... And you're bloody well drawn to them. You can't stay out of the Deadlands."

He stopped his caressing, grasping of her flesh, and Belle turned, watching him undress.

"No hiding away all hours of the night, tonight?"

"I was never hiding. You always find me easily enough, dearie."

"What were you doing?"

He only looked at her, then tugged off his trousers. He was half-hard, and Belle let her eyes linger on it, watching it lengthen, jump a little under her gaze. Why not stare? He looked his fill. His hand moved to it and stroked a few times as he crawled back onto the bed; he seemed not to notice that he did it. The sight of it parted Belle's lips; it made an ache in her belly.

"Working on a spell." he finally answered.

His fingers, nimble and long, went to work on the laces of her bodice. Belle lay still and let him undo her, tug this way and that on her clothing; move her about as he undressed her like a doll. When she was naked, he arranged her so that her legs were open, surrounding him, laying over his hips. Likewise, his legs surrounded her, bony, high-arched feet near her shoulders, their bottoms more pink than their tops. His cock nestled against her sex, where they pulsed hotly against once another.

To Belle, this was incendiary. She was flushed, nipples hard and breathing shallow. It must the same for him, she thought, and yet - once arranged - he seemed content to talk. He stroked up and down her thighs, kneaded at her hips. His cock nudged and slid against her, teasing.

He said, "Your openness has been a boon to me, dearie. It's given me information I wouldn't have had, otherwise. It's helped me greatly in my work."

"Then... why do you want to 'shut me down' ?"

"It's not safe for you."

It gave her pause... that he wanted her safety more than the advancement of whatever was his agenda. It came as a bit of a surprise to her.

"I haven't felt endangered." she said.

"No, dearie? Succumbing to sleep in snow doesn't strike you as dangerous?

"But... that was just _me_. My temper. It wasn't spirits."

"And yet you went directly to the Deadlands."

"You wouldn't want me to go as far as the village.."

"... _Belle..."_ he sounded mildly frustrated, but he still stroked and pet her. His fingers spanned over her thighs, reaching to her hipbones; sometimes his thumbs dug in at her inner thighs. It tugged at her sex, further hardening, teasing the little bud at her apex. It shifted his cock against her.

"Why must you fight me on this?" he asked. "I _know_ the spirits are there, dearie. Even if you choose to remain ignorant. They were with you when I found you in the Deadlands. I can't fully banish them, because you continue to invite them."

"I _don't_."

He inclined his head, an acknowledging bow. "Aye, not deliberately. You're like a door that was closed, locked... until you came here. You've opened, and the spirits want to come through. They love you."

Giving a cheeky grin, Belle said, "I wonder what could have opened me...."

Rumpelstiltskin smiled back, and brushed a thumb lightly over the little bud. Belle's hips flexed in response, making his cock nudge against her more fully. Rumpelstiltskin breathed through parted lips, chest rising and falling. He said, "If your spirits go hand in hand with your appetite, we may have a problem, dearie."

_"My_ appetite."

"Oh, aye. It at least matches mine, if not exceeding it."

Frowning, feeling her face heat up, Belle asked, "Is that bad, Rumpel?"

His eyes gleamed wickedly. "Yes." he said; and oddly, opened his mouth to her, showing his tongue, pressed to his bottom row of teeth. The tip curled up... and out... like a serpent. It did something... it made a diablerie in Belle; his eyes and mouth. A spasm took her lower belly, rocking her a bit, and her eyelashes fluttered at the heat in her eyes. _"... ohhh..."_

"... _So_ bad, dearie..."

He slid his finger inside her, hissing through his teeth as she clenched around him. As her body rode him. But in only a moment, he withdrew it, hands gripping her thighs. It left them both breathless.

"I get so distracted." he pouted.

Frustrated, Belle said, "Well, you've arranged up in a distracting manner."

"I have, dearie. Sometimes I can't stop myself. All of _this_..." he slid his hands from her thighs to her breasts, grasping them, kissing her belly before sitting up again. "... All of this _lush_ landscape is mine, love. I'm afraid I'm a jealous master, hoarding you to myself. Like the king or the giant, soothing himself with counting coins and gloating over treasure, I _must_ look upon you... laid out before me... open for me, naked..."

His hips rocked, his voice ever more breathy. Belle saw the darkening at his cheeks and chest that she knew to be his heated blood, his blush. She felt her own heat; she was drowning in it.

"... Please, Rumpel... your cock."

"Do you want it, dearie?"

" _Yes."_

He slid it inside of her, a little shallow in their almost scissored position. But it felt so good to Belle, the intense relief of it washing over her. Her hips rose so that she bore down on his, taking him more deeply inside and riding him in a slick, hot friction. Rumpelstiltskin held her hips in a death-grip, rocking upwards to meet her. His breathing was ragged, his eyes fixed, watching his cock slide in and out of her.

"Touch your clit." he said, voice harsh. "Let me watch you play with your pussy."

Belle complied, the little bud engorged, begging for touch. It was sensitive, nerve endings shrill and, seeming to Belle, almost to sing. She drew circles around it with her finger, her mind conjuring Rumpelstiltskin's earlier display of serpent tongue. How good it would feel, she thought, for that serpent tongue to lap and play softly against the tormented, throbbing bud. How good it would feel for him to close his mouth over it, his soft, pouting lips... and _suck._

_".... Oh!..."_ She felt herself clench with the thought, her fingers playing over the bud, her _clit_ , in a rapid, back and forth motion. Instinctively, she trapped it between her first and second fingers, and gave it a wet, desperate jiggle, distantly hearing Rumpelstiltskin saying, " _Yes... yes... yes!"_

With a cry that was almost a scream, Belle's back arched, heat flaring at her sex, chest and face. It flared at her hands and feet, the small of her back; her sex gripped and sucked at Rumpelstiltskin's cock as she came, her body locked in convulsions.

Then it happened... that thing she somewhat dreaded... a feeling inside of her of a threshold crossed, followed by a _loosening_... and she _gushed_.

"... No...." she couldn't help but moan, eyes squeezed shut.

Rumpelstiltskin was of a different mind. He pulled her down to meet his fast, frenzied upward thrusts, and he growled, " _Fuck_ yes! _Fuck_ yes! Ah... god... _Fuck_!"

Holding her, sealing her to him, he pumped his seed into her... shoulders tensed, faced agonized.

When their breathing slowed, he pulled out of her, making her gasp. He moved to his knees, pushing her lags back; knees to shoulders. Bending to her, he _licked_.

Serpent tongue. It flickered, teasing her opening. Then he licked softly, tongue broad, flat... like a dog licking a wound. He made soft, slow strokes over her sex, bottom to top, steady and unspeakably lascivious. Soft... velvety-wet.

Belle's breathing quieted, her body climbing again, building. When her hands fisted in the bedclothes, her hips trying to rock against his hold on her, he suckled the bud into his mouth and kissed it wetly, moaning, until she came a second time.

It was softer... the climax unfolding in slow, rolling waves. Belle trembled and moaned, pressing herself more firmly to his mouth. Even as the climax was subsiding, he moved to lick against her opening again, and coaxed more little waves of pleasure from her. His fingers moved slickly against her other opening, and - for once - Belle didn't care. It felt so good... the waves going on and on. She was his... he could touch her however he pleased.

　

　

 


	19. Rumpelstiltskin's Agenda

The spinning wheel made a soft sound, a whir and a whispered creaking of wood. Belle sat at Rumpelstiltskin's stocking feet; thick, red wool disappearing beneath the hem of his leather trousers. The crimson shirt he wore was loose, untucked, pooling about his lap. She leaned against his thigh, taking in the leather scent... Wood-smoke, heat from the roaring fireplace soothed her, as did the whirring; the spark and flash of dusty straw becoming filaments of golden thread. It was magic, and she smelled crumbling, dark burned sugar.

His words still hung, an echo, though he'd spoken so softly. Carefully, as though the words could break apart the air around them. The picture they made, together, could shatter.

"I have a son. His name is Baelfire."

Belle could only think on what a lovely name it was. Like the needfires of her kingdom, no longer truly needed, it seemed. The name was a spell, as Rumpelstiltskin's name was a spell.

She watched the wheel and made the words solid in her mind. Rumpelstiltskin had a son. A child. There was a fleeting moment in her peripheral vision, her thoughts; like the fire flames, leaping and receding; over her children... his other children. But they, if they were real at all, were ghosts.

Spirits, he'd said. And she, a door; closed for now.

"Go on." she finally said, her voice as quiet and careful as his. She squeezed his calf, rubbing her head against him.

"I lost him, years ago."

Oh... no. "Lost?" she asked.

Rumpelstiltskin shifted a bit, his hand coming briefly to pet her hair, before returning to wheel and straw, liquid gold.

"I... can't make myself say the words, Belle... Tell the story. I'm too ashamed."

"Tell me what you can."

She looked up at him, and his gaze fell down on her. It felt as though her blood rushed to make her heart squeeze. She couldn't bear for him to hurt.

He gave a little nod, his eyes so deeply hooded. He said, "Bae wanted to cure me of the curse, to have his old dad back. But I was afraid to live without magic. Without power. When he found a way... a place we could live, where the curse had no hold... I... didn't go with him."

"He left?"

Rumpelstiltskin's face briefly twisted into a mask of pain, and blatant anger. Hatred. It froze Belle in place, her eyes large and staring. He mastered himself, face calming.

"He was _taken_. He was given magic, the magic of the Fae, to travel to another land. It _took_ him, and I..."

".... Did not follow?"

He looked away from her and nodded. When he looked back to the wheel, Belle saw water standing in his eyes. Her own eyes filled, her empathy for him such that his hurt became hers.

"Don't cry, Rumpel." she whispered, holding tighter to his thigh.

He pet her hair, again, then brought his hand to his face, wiping away tears.

"I doubt he could ever forgive me, but it doesn't matter. I have to find him. Everything I've done since he was... lost to me... has been to find him. Every scrap of power I've built, accumulated. Everything I've learned about magic... all of it has been for Bae."

He looked down at Belle, and the wheel came to a stop. His hands lay between his legs, fingers curled up and in, black nails rather sinister in the firelight.

"I couldn't know that he was even alive... It's been so many years, I begin to lose track. But _you_ showed me, Belle."

"Me...?"

"Aye. You, the door that you are. The spirits you call. Your writing, even your dreams... they spill into mine. You showed me that he yet lives, and the world... a different world... that he is living in. Because of you, I can put the final pieces of magic together. Those that I need to get to him."

Belle couldn't think of what to say. It made her sound important, perhaps powerful. But her mind was only ever filled with _him_... to the point of losing herself. If there were spirits, she knew them only as owls and wind and shifting, scuttling leaves. _Water_... movement beneath.

"... What..." she croaked a bit. "What will you do?"

"Enact a curse."

A curse? No, that couldn't be right.

"Or rather, I'll get another to do it, a piece of the puzzle I've long known, and have worked to set in motion. I won't enact it myself, for it requires a sacrifice... I can't make. I won't make."

"A curse? _Who_ will enact it, Rumpel?" Belle half-feared he would look to her, and how on earth would she ever manage a _curse_? But, no. Eyes dark, all pupil, he said, "The Queen."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He let her have her journal back, and Belle read, as if for the first time, the words she'd written that had so changed Rumpelstiltskin. Words she couldn't understand; blood she couldn't help but shed. How had these things led to Baelfire?

She began to recognize elements of her writing from dreams... something about the egg rang true, and the giver of gifts. Her Rumpel. The way it felt as if she'd always loved him. But much of it was meaningless.

Rumpelstiltskin showed her a magical object, a box, of sorts, that became a conical, sorcerer's hat; that style of old, for both mages and dunces. It was one of so many objects he'd acquired while amassing power. The hat stole magic, making it's owner ever-stronger, more adept at magic. But the box, when in it's first stage of opening, showed _worlds_. Rumpelstiltskin opened it, and light erupted, a glowing twilight. Stars covered the ceiling, obscured the room. They moved as one body, traveling in an arc, constellations ever changing. Eventually the magical sky above was the one Rumpelstiltskin was looking for, and he stilled the motion. He showed her Orion, and the Dog Star. Belle was dumbstruck... she had written the names of stars from another world. A world where Baelfire now lived.

He showed her a star called Bellatrix, and she stared... at light from a star that didn't exist in her own sky.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His story, his plans meandered throughout the evening. Belle made a supper of chicken pie... peasant fare, but complicated enough for her limited experience in the kitchen. She was pleased with her efforts. The poultry was accompanied by potatoes, carrots, peas and onions... broth thickened and bubbled from the pie crust that was appealingly golden, only a little dark at the edges. The scent of baking chicken, buttered pastry, thyme and an overall wholesomeness filled the warm kitchen. It drifted out into the foyer, the study, the sitting room. Soon enough, Rumpelstiltskin followed it's trail and arrived at the plank table, Chloe at his heels.

Surprised, Belle thought she heard his stomach growl. She smiled at him.

"It smells so good in here, Belle." A deep inhalation, eyes closed, both hands on his belly. "Mmm."

"Mew?"

"Chloe agrees." he scratched her mottled, striped head. "As your cooking continues to improve, so will your mastery over spells."

Bending to ease her pie from the oven, Belle said, "I haven't cast any spells."

"You will, dearie. You'll grow into it, just like you grew into this kitchen. And I think you _have_ cast... though perhaps not intentionally."

Her mood, her regard for magic was uncertain. His plans to build a curse.. to _complete_ it's building... left her uneasy.

"I don't know, Rumpel. If I've caused such mayhem, just by somehow allowing for spirits I didn't even know were there.."

" _Mayhem_. Hardly, dearie. You've opened the way. You've removed the obstacle."

Looking at him, brow creased, Belle said, "I've removed the obstacle to cursing all of the land, the kingdoms. Myself, my family included."

Rumpelstiltskin steepled his fingers, staring back at her. Belle dropped her gaze and felt her cheeks heat up. Nearly mumbling, she said, "Sacrificing the good of many for the good of the one." It wasn't heroic.

"Belle."

She lifted her gaze to meet his once more. His face was still, but there was pleading in his eyes.

"I _have_ to, love. He is my son, and he lives. I have to find my child... I wronged him, Belle. I _wronged_ him."

"And you and I?" Belle asked. "We will be apart? Perhaps I'll forget you altogether... as well as myself."

"I won't let that happen. I'll find you. I'll restore your memory."

"In a world without magic."

Seeming to lose his nerve, Rumpelstiltskin looked down at the table. His posture was defeated, and Belle took pity. Turning back to the oven, she sliced and scooped nearly half of the pie for Rumpelstiltskin, serving it to him on a plate of moss green. From her own serving, she fished out morsels of meat and fed them to Chloe, who made her approval known with a loud purr.

How like a cat Rumpelstiltskin was, Belle thought, not for the first time. It didn't surprise her when Chloe jumped to the table, and Rumpelstiltskin shared his plate with her. They ate together, mostly silent, each purring in his or her own way.

Her father, Gaston, would have knocked Chloe from the table. Belle watched him, the man who once couldn't remember to eat or sleep. Now he wanted her bed each night... he ate with the focused concentration of the deeply appreciative. The hungered. What would he do without her? Who would touch him, and remind him that he was loved?

Breaking the cozy silence of the shared meal, Belle said, "I can't live without you, Rumpel."

"Nor I, without you, my love."

Her heart seized, looking into his strange eyes.

"If I can learn how to cast, maybe I can help. Maybe I can change the curse, somehow. Find a different path."

Rumpelstiltskin said, "Aye, love." But his face, his voice didn't match his words.

"I must do _something_." Belle said, fork held idly aloft, as if it was her wand. Chloe eyed it's movement. "I know you can't abandon the search for your son. I understand, Rumpel. But I can't lose you.

 


	20. Door

Belle woke many times during the night, finding herself touched, moved about, handled by Rumpelstiltskin. She woke to his mouth, hot and wet, suckling at her breasts, her gown pushed up about her neck. She woke, confused and dreamy, her skin hot and yet racing with chills, to feel him moving inside her. He spooned to her back, both of them laying on their sides. He held her close, one arm scooped under her leg, and rocked into her, breath in her ear.

She woke again, feeling her gown pulled and tugged from her body, and then the closeness, the warmth of his body pressed close to hers. He was like a furnace, the heat he put off. His hands slid over her body, touching and claiming her everywhere he could.

At her ear, he whispered, "You're mine, Belle. You are my own, my love."

Both asleep and awake, Belle murmured, "Yes. Forever."

"Forever."

"Yes."

She dreamt a little; his words, the intensity of his body feeding her dreams. _Forever_ , he said in dream, and it didn't mean only the life she knew, now. It was all lives.... she'd never known she could live so many. He would always be with her.

But she fretted. She couldn't see the life he was creating; that he was directing them towards. She couldn't imagine the land, or herself in it. Would _forever_ still be true, when the life was a construct? When it was something made of magic?

She gasped, eyes opening to darkness and closing again, still both awake and asleep. She understood that Rumpelstiltskin was inside of her, again, on top of her. She didn't think her body would ever deny him... she felt her own wetness, coating both of them, slippery where they connected. And yet she was sore... she felt swollen and tender where he thrust into her... her inner thighs ached, and she felt bruised from his sharp hipbones. His face was buried against her neck, his breath desperate in her ear. His arms wrapped about her completely, and his hips pounded steadily.

"Rumpel.." Belle gasped, her arms going around him.

He exhaled, slowing a little. One of her hands came to stroke his hair, fingers grazing his neck, entwining in his waves and curls. His thrusts became a rocking, a nuzzling grind, before suddenly driving once more, cock wicked inside of her.

"I love you!" he whispered, urgently. Belle whispered it back, holding on. She felt tension drain from his body as he emptied into her, and she began to drift once more.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_I can't protect you in your dream, dearie._

Yet he seemed happy, saying it. He framed the words with artful, sculpted hands. He grinned, collar high, lace at his throat. What unfolded would delight him.

 

She thought she looked upon herself. Where was _she_ -Belle - in this? A ghost? A thought? But there was the other _her_ , that she'd heard called a Goblin Queen. A woman seemingly on her own, in an underground chamber. Dirt; bare, raw earth; roots and lichen, a secret sparkle of crystal, quartz, everywhere that candlelight shone. An underground chapel.

Her throne was, in a way, simple. Carved of wood, unadorned by gems or precious stones and metals. But the embellishment... rich, deep wood carved with crescent moons, fish, mermaids, cats, leaves... faces peered from the flora with the eyes of her children. Owls. Seals.

Her dress was scarlet, a flimsy peeping of white linen from beneath. The dress was rich; velvet and gleaming satin, crushed velvet roses scalloped over a plunging, sweetheart neckline. The bodice was fitted, the skirt full, and yet her appearance was ragged.

She was not a lady, though a Queen of sorts. She was barefoot, the hem of her dress threadbare and uneven. Her hair was loose and unkempt, her legs, open; concealed by the skirt, one leg draped over the arm of the throne. She slouched.

A leaf-twig-bird-insect-child played on her knee, capering and shifting. She tickled it, and a laughter like whispering bounced around the walls of root and dirt. There were scents of oak-moss and hidden mushrooms. Of milk, honey and sweet grains.

She sing-songed, for herself and for the child, making faces.

_Hiccup_

_Fuck you up_

_They danced for seven years..._

_Magic bean_

_His smile was mean_

_He said he loves her, dear..._

_Stolen time_

_That once was mine_

_And will not be again...._

_I bit the flesh_

_Of luscious fruit_

_The juice ran down my chin._

 

The child was only dry leaves on the ground, moving shadows. Kneeling before her was the Imp.

_How now, dearie?_ He giggled an imp's giggle.

Before her he jiggled a glass flask of something glowing. Lavender-violet-periwinkle. It swirled and glimmered.

_What is it?_

He grinned; his frightful, toothsome grin.

_It is protoplasm and soul._

_For me?_

_Indeed, dearie._

She took it, but found she held an egg in her hand. It was bright with color, like those at celebrations of spring. Blue, lavender... like the flask. Around it were patterns of fern.

He tsk-tsked at the egg. _Deficient child. Sugar, cockleshell._

He kissed her knee. _I love you, well._

_And I, you_.

His eyes absorbed the darkness. They fixated, dilated. They were a spell. His mouth was fevered at her neck, her jaw. His fingers hot beneath her skirt, the egg glowing in her hand; heated, as if with blood.

_Swear an oath_ , he pants... _swear a name. I'll give you everything... say my name._

 

 

_There's a goblin in the butter dish, my love..._

 

 

She wrote words on parchment, crouched naked on the floor of earth. Her body was marked by the Imp; scratched and bitten and bruised. Her sex throbbed with pleasure-pain. Her lips were swollen. She was well pleased.

The words rose from the parchment and drifted up and out, with a strong scent of black rose and sorcerer's violet.

_... a torrent of prayer, wings that beat,_

_that bloody the air, blood that drums,_

_and deafens her ear, he speaks the word;_

_and it is good._

 

His name, itself; a spell. _(Rumpelstiltskin)_

 

She had a bowl for scrying. It was made of obsidian; it was wide and shallow, and rested on a tripod of twisted oak and garnet. She poured water and gazed. She was not a lady... she stood, naked, fingertips lingering between her legs, lips parted. The Imp, in thought, still lingered in her flesh. He woke her magic. He'd taught her the woman's art of scrying.

The bowl showed another place, where there were women who ran from bondage. From chains of marriage. They were wild, wanton. They were like her.

They revered a deity and called him Dionysus. Wine was his blood, bread was his body. They danced with the scent of lost gods on the wind.

They called him by other names, titles. Wild One, Fox God, He Who Releases, Mad One...

... Dark One.

They present their swollen senses to his sex, and he swells.

 

She did not make blood sacrifices, but those women did. They were infected by their Dark One, those bare-legged, loose haired women. They'd been slaves. They were acquisitions, wealth and barter, like cattle. They wanted escape from the status of no-status, from skillets and voicelessness and the men who ran their lives. But they threw the baby out with the bathwater. They became mad-women. They tore apart animals and feasted on raw flesh, bathing in blood. In this way, they venerated their Dark One, who was a pretty thing.

So pretty. A face that confuses, with a girl's big eyes, long lashes, soft mouth. A boy's chin and jaw, a boy's smooth forehead and silky, taut body. A muscled thing, yet lithe and lissome.

Their Liberator, their Hunter, their ivy crowned Lord of the Wild Wood. He once had wings, but he'd died and been reborn. It was celebrated with colored eggs and an entourage of rabbits.

 

 

In her underground chapel, she sat on the floor in her red dress. Illusive, ghost children all around, piled in her lap and leaning close about her. She told the story.

Her Imp, the giver of gifts. _My Dark One is so different from theirs. The darkness, the riding of it, changed him. Like a poison. The others were called beautiful and trafficked in blood. Mine was called a monster, but did not seek a blood sacrifice. He did not demand it._

But... _ohhhh_ , the little ones whispered in their own language; in a big-eyed flurry. _You don't know what he does. What he's done._

One, flitting up to her ear, said, _He demanded your moon blood... and he went mad with it._

 

 

The Imp was back, crouched behind her, face hovering at her shoulder. The little ones made a whooping sound of surprise and scattered into nothingness. She peered back, seeing such big, eerily childlike eyes, cast in the iris of a predator animal. His glimmering face was lit, his smile animated. She scented old lace, leather; the fevered sexuality of beeswax.

_Why so coifed and adorned?_

He giggled at the silly question. He was always a showman. He sang, as a suggestion, _The night is sweet and swollen moon..._

She only looked at him, and he shrugged, standing. Staring down at her, he said, _I am a victim of nymphalepsy._

She smiled up at him. She only half understood, but thought him cheeky. Clever. She loved him, well.

An odd, pensive look about him, he brought his hands together in a loud, thunderous clap.

_Wake up!_

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Opening her eyes, Belle said, "I'm awake."

"About bloody time, dearie. You're impossible."

Rumpelstiltskin sat astride her. How odd, Belle thought. A naked imp perched on her pelvis, skin glittering copper-green in growing light. She might be dreaming, still.

"And good morning to you." she said, stretching beneath him.

She felt his fingertips skim over her breasts while she was caught in her stretch. As her body un-seized and relaxed, he cupped her breast to his palm.

"What's so impossible?" Belle asked.

"You, dearie. Your magic."

"I haven't any."

He made a great show of rolling his eyes and appearing to be flabbergasted, hands to his head. It made Belle giggle.

"Let us be done with that pretense, dearie. You may not be the most proficient at accessing your _particular_ talents while awake in the world, but when your guard is down, in sleep... or even daydreaming... it all comes bubbling up. Pouring out."

He stroked from her breasts to her jaw, her face. Belle realized that his blasted thumb, that callused, black-nailed pad was coming after her brow again. She squirmed beneath him, turning her head from side to side. " _No_!"

"I'm sorry, love. I have to. Can you not feel them all around?"

Belle stilled herself at the question, head cocked, as if listening. Perhaps she felt _something_... a shiftiness about the room; an untrustworthiness in the arrangement of air and shadow.

She scented Rumpelstiltskin, in the tumbled bedclothes, on her skin, above her... firewood and ash, cardamom, nutmeg... But there was another play of scent; less hot, less smoky than his, hard to keep track of.

A cool, almost cold, little winding scent trail of lavender, wisteria; desolate, pure white rose. Old leaves.

Was it _them?_

"Do you see, dearie?"

"... I don't know..."

He captured her head in both hands, and began the assault. Closing the door, however that worked. Her gorge rose.

" _I_ feel them." he said, grunting with the effort of not being thrown from Belle's body. "I very nearly _see_ them. I can't go about my work in my own castle, haunted by creatures that seek you out like candy."

Belle moaned, afraid she would throw up. She tried to turn her head.

"Almost, love."

She kept her eyes closed, seeing a swimming darkness of spots when they were open. Then finally, he released her. She cocked her head again... He might be right, she thought. About _them_ , about the door... For the room now felt cozy and familiar, her vision felt clear and reliable. The cooler, older scents were no more.

"Better?" Rumpelstiltskin nodded to her belly; the nausea.

"Yes. I _wish_ you wouldn't do that."

"Learn to control your magic, dearie. Then I won't have to."

Belle rolled her eyes, but was willing to receive the kiss he gave her, leaning down, capturing her hands in his and pinning them over her head. He smiled voraciously and kissed both breasts, sucking at her nipples.

Immediately aroused, Belle closed her eyes with a sigh. "It's not just me." she said. "You _push_ me. You... _had_ me all night long.... It seems like it feeds dreams. Openness."

"Does it, now?" he purred, mouth kissing and hot beneath her ear.

"If you make it happen again," she said, with another sigh, "Don't you come at my brow, again. You'll just have to live with what you've done."

" _Oh."_  Rumpelstiltskin said, brightly. He sat up, and then swung off of her; off of the bed. Belle was dismayed. Standing beside the bed, half-hard cock nearly in tantalizing, swinging reach, he said, "Well, I'd better not risk it, dearie." He smiled.

"... Rumpel..."

"Oh, no. You're so very correct, Belle. Can't be too careful."

Her brow furrowed, Belle thought... two can play at this game. Sitting up with a wistful, longing sigh, she said, "Where did my nightgown go?"

On the pretense of looking for it, she scrambled out of the bedclothes. Her backside to Rumpelstiltskin, she got on her hands and knees, legs apart, bum in the air. She peered over the other side of the bed, feeling herself blush with immodesty and excitement.

" _There it is_." she said, and made to reach for her discarded gown.

She hardly got the words out. He was on the bed, behind her, sliding hotly inside her, dissolving her smugness with thrusts so hard, her teeth clacked together, her head driven into the mattress. She laughed a little in spite of it all... it was so _easy_ to lure him. Her laughter quickly turned to escalating, breathy moans.... He was over her body, feet on the bed, beside her knees, in a deep, wide-legged crouch as he thrust. Like an animal. His hand held her throat, and at her ear he whispered, "You little bitch." The word shocked Belle, yet he sounded affectionate. Oddly, proud. He kissed the side of her face sweetly, though he pounded as if trying to slay her.

"Can't be denied, can you, dearie?"

Belle moaned, her breath punctuated with cries. "You feel so good," she whispered. A river of pleasure, and the new pain that she experienced as pleasure moved in a strong current between her mind and her sex. She felt it from the back of her skull and down her spine.... it pooled in boiling blood where he fucked and fucked.

"You too," he whispered back. "So wet, so tight... _tighter..."_

A voluptuous darkness overcame Belle, Rumpelstiltskin a dark shadow, an incubus above her. The feeling was so strong, she feared she truly would fall once more into a world of spirits. They raced through her, now, and she was more fully aware of them; names melding to faces. Dionysus, Shemyaza. _Dark One_. Mad women dancing and allowing their bodies to be ravaged by hybrid men... _fauns_? The symbol of power their lost god carried that was so like a phallus. They wanted to lose themselves in the madness, in nimble tongues, caramel-touched body heat; in liquid rapture, obliterating them from _themselves_.

And so did she. She wanted her rakehell villain, for she couldn't deny his existence.... Her Rumpelstiltskin was more than one thing. He wasn't only bad or only good, and Belle wanted all of him.

In her darkness, she heard him growl and then cry out as he melted into seed, filling her. And then her darkness exploded into light, surely filling the room, as her body sang with release.

　

 


	21. Setting the Curse in Motion

Rumpelstiltskin, alone in his tower room, admitted a truth to himself.

He didn't want to do it.

_Fiend. Monster_. Coward, living this borrowed life.

He was disgusting.

There was apart of himself he loathed; so weak and whiney, so pathetic. With the aid of the Dark One, he'd tried so hard to kill that sad, little man. That unloved, abandoned little boy who had barely grown up. He'd really only grown older; a whipped dog, ribs sticking out, sniffing after whatever scraps might fall his way, and accepting them with terrified, trembling gratitude. Food, money, pussy... it was all the same, scared, hungry eeking out and acceptance of something like life.

Rumpelstiltskin hated that part of himself... He hated it more than the monster.

Yet, weakling, runt and beggar that it was, it lived. It whined within him, even now.

_We don't even know Bae. We saw him, he's a man. Bigger, stronger than us, in a blaring and noisy world... his world, now. Just let go. We're so happy, here with Belle. Belle and her spirits... how she nurtures us, the man and the demon. We can give her a child, a true child. We can be together, forever_.

... That sniveling, crawling, _crippled_ thing... had a point.

But, no. The truth was admitted, and he would do all he could to be with Belle. Forever. He knew, now, there was a blood bond between them, stronger than flesh and gold rings and words. He would hold that bond in safe-keeping. But he must not abandon Bae. _Again_. Still.

Gone was his ability to master _need_. He felt the cold, he hungered. He wanted the comfort of Belle's love; her body. He wanted to suckle at her breast like a babe, held and cuddled, wrapped around her. In this way, she made him weak.

But she also made him strong; her love made him stronger every day. She nourished him. And it was true... she nourished both man and demon, strengthening both. Her blood, her attendant spirits... She was a door and _he'd_ opened her... _he'd_ gone through. And it led to Baelfire. The path could not be ignored.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Belle came to the tower room, drawn by scents of autumn breezes; melancholy, strangely warm in the winter chill that gripped the Dark Castle.

The scent was heart wrenching. Without trying, she saw bales of hay, glowing gold in a low, burning sun; the sky the deepest, the most saturated of blues. Harvest is done, she thought. Summer is over. Something inside her ached with loss. The burnished straw awaited the wheel.

Closer to Rumpelstiltskin's room of concentrated magic, she smelled coffee, polished wood, dusty books; open and bared to magic-filled air. Soft, well worn, black leather; the musk of his sex; smoldering ashes.

Goldenrod and red sumac... everything within her blazed.

His room had changed. Belle had never seen such activity, even when he was agitated and his magic played out like musical scales. Like shuffled cards. The walls seemed painted with pictures, but they moved; ghosts made of rich color.

Wild, exotic, possibly fictional birds clustered in corners, only to burst into a jewel-feathered flight across a troubled sky. Goblins crouched darkly. Could it be... faeries?.. shimmered brightly. On one wall, a winged man watched all, his form beautiful and his expression turbulent. His eyes seemed to absorb all light, until it was clear to Belle that they were the darkness of inverted stars; and the winged man, (Dark One?), was a psychic witness rather than a sighted being.

Rumpelstiltskin's broad, oak plank table seemed to have a Great Work spread out upon it.... cluttered about with seashells and stones, artifacts. Smoke bubbled lazily from bottles, candy-sweet and metallically acidic scents flooded the room by turns, heavy and cloying, while astrolabes spun and maps unfolded themselves, strange and graph-like. Spheres, crystal or precious gems, revolved in darkened places, hovering in almost soundless song; while leaves fell, gold and silver showers, out of thin air.

In the midst of all stood Rumpelstiltskin, a narrow blade of a man; a sharp line, cutting the air, in black leather breeches and a stark, white shirt. The collar was open, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the planed flexing of veined forearms. His hands were in the air, arms aloft, conducting. He smiled wildly.

Like the seemingly painted walls, he watched and _directed_ a scene, painted over a wall of books. It was the Queen, her dark eyes flashing; white, white teeth bared behind ruby-red lips. She was vexed beyond the telling, visions of the wedding of Snow White filling her being with a jealousy that turned her blood to poison. She seethed in poison, unable to escape herself.

Belle knew that Rumpelstiltskin fed the jealousy, even now, and for a moment she closed her eyes. The weight of the knowledge hurt, bending her. Her eyes opened, and he was in her vision again, happy. Buoyant. Absorbed in his Great Work.

The Queen held a sphere in her hand, like those spinning in the shadows of the tower room. Before the horrified expression of another woman, _another witch_ , she hurled the sphere to the stone floor, shattering it. In the tower room, the spheres exploded in time with Rumpelstiltskin's shout. Glitter, silver and iridescent, rained down. Belle saw it sparkling on her hands, her dress. It was in Rumpelstiltskin's hair.

The Queen, bending to retrieve something from within the sphere, rose to her full, sinuous and voluptuous height. She held a scroll, a look of pure hunger and greed painting her features into a malevolent lust. Belle, by the painful cramp that took hold of her belly, knew that she held the Curse. Rumpelstiltskin's Curse.

As if to confirm, Rumpelstiltskin jumped and fell into a little jig. He danced, giggling madly, still conducting. As the Queen left the presence of the other woman, from whom she'd stolen, the image faded from the wall of books. The other images, the movement, activity in the room remained. Increased. The room grew hot.

Rumpelstiltskin whirled around, and, becoming aware of her, swaggered over to Belle. He gathered her up against him... Like a rag-doll, he danced her around the room in a sweeping, fast-paced waltz. He grinned at her as he twirled, strode and dipped. Belle was dizzy with the dance, with the room. Eventually he propped her feet on his booted feet, holding her tight... holding her _up_ , and continued to dance.

He dance and danced, and Belle clung to him.

 


	22. Belle's Spell

She was defying him. Again.

She hurried through the outer gatehouse, lest her transgression rouse him from his self-satisfied glee. Spirits from her dreams of the night before rearranged molecules as Belle passed by, snagging tendrils of her russet hair and settling just behind her ears, at the sides of her eyes. They changed her vision so that it was colored by her dreams.

The snow had receded, and Belle wove around puddles and places of muck. At the tree-line in the far distance, a film of purple was smeared across the sky, hovering. The air looked green and bruised, sickly yellow. It smelled metallic, like one of the scents permeating the tower.

Echoing the anguish of the sky, a flock of crows populated the tree-line; clustered and making a steady _ha-haw_ chatter. Some had spread out and were hunting in the Deadlands. They moved in great, bounding hops, or sometimes walked, swaggering like cocky, little men. Dark imps. They didn't flee at Belle's approach, but only shifted from swagger to hop, bouncing a few steps away before cocking a black eye at her.

The colors in the hinterland were weirdly bright in spite of the dullness overhead, but in a dream manner. Stone flashed mineral -white beneath lichen. And yet, vibrancy was sucked at by a psychic pollution. Colors faded; weak light washed them out and paled shadow.

During the dance, Belle had come to _know._ She simply became aware, as if Rumpelstiltskin had transferred knowledge from his body to hers.

He was afraid. For all of his mad-cap merriment, his pleasure in power and success, he was afraid. He'd put Regina, the Queen, on the final path to cursing them all. All was in place... He had, as he'd told Belle, done the math. But he feared what was to come. He feared losing her... He even feared losing himself.

And he _knew_. He'd played ignorant, but he knew he'd planted children inside of her, even if he hadn't meant to. Even if the children were _un-children_. Even if they were phantom seals in the sea and goblins in the earth. As she was led in his dance, her feet on his, her head heavy on his shoulder and her arms dangling, flopped at her sides; she saw visions she knew were _his._

The children grew not in her belly, but in her mind... in her soul. In dark spaces behind her eyes that she was raised to pretend away. The _door._

Rumpelstiltskin had felt those offspring since they were no bigger than a little bead of blood, as though brought on by a nettle prickle. He was aware when they grew, _becoming_ Belle. She mistook their presence for her own heartbeat, for the contracting and dilating of her veins. For the chambers of her heart filling with the rushing of oxygen rich redness.

But he knew. He felt them; a part of her, now. A part of her heartbeat, mingling with her, speaking within her cells. Perhaps changing her. They were drenched with her and she with them, nestled inside the most inner, living parts of her organs, arteries and lymph. They pushed his darkness, the Dark One, into her, crowding at the back of her mind, blurring her vision with _themselves_. Lulling her in strange ways. Rumpelstiltskin could feel when they wanted release. They feared he would destroy them, fearing for her safety.

Belle thought of the mad women, following their lost god and living bloodied lives. Their abandoned children and baffled husbands; and the way the Dark One, if truly it was he, had infected them. They were sick with him, insane with him. They ingested him, as wine and bread, so to live forever.

If this was her, the babies an infection, she _didn't_ care. She would never run from Rumpelstiltskin. She'd known, for some time, the truth of it... her trust in him, her need for him.... her belief, her knowledge that only he could truly know her, and only she could know him. It meant more to her than anything. It was all that mattered.

That is why her first spell, maybe her last - should she forget herself - would be a binding.

She'd assembled all that her books said was required, but she still didn't know how to make the spell have _life_ , vitality. Power. She didn't know how to make the magic. She came to the Deadlands, at the hollow hills, and hoped that magic, spirits would come to her. As Rumpelstiltskin said they did.

With the guidance of her books, she'd made dolls. It was likely rubbish, superstition and sympathetic magic. She did it anyway, knowing that Rumpelstiltskin placed much importance on symbols; even if the symbols, in and of themselves, were not magical.

The dolls were a pair, he and she. They were cute. Belle almost regretted their function as tools... she wanted to make them kiss and dance and cavort... little, green Rumpel and little, be-skirted Belle. She'd used scraps of their own clothes, and embroidered little, doll faces. She stuffed them with her hair and with his; with dried apple and some of Rumpelstiltskin's honey-black rose, that fed so much of his magic.

Feeling filthy, ludicrously depraved, she'd waited until Rumpelstiltskin fell into a stupor; post success and post climax; and then she'd squatted beside the bed. She caught his seed and her slippery scent in her hand, and this went into the dolls as well. Into Rumpel-doll went virile juniper and scorched clove. Into Belle-doll went honey, vanilla and the black tea Rumpelstiltskin loved so well.

The dolls were all stitched and they were bound together with shining, red satin ribbon. Face to face. They would kiss, embrace, merge to one another for always.

But that was the dolls. The symbols.

Belle climbed a barrow, coming to the stones at the top, and sat amongst the dead grasses and not quite banished drifts of snow. She watched the crows, none of them too close to the barrow. They eyeballed it; they eyeballed her. Soon enough, little burrowing owls emerged at the base of the hill, smaller by far than the crows. They puffed up like threatened cats, making little trills and clicks of their beaks, turning their heads almost upside down and standing tall; silly round birds on skinny legs.

Belle could almost see the crows rolling their eyes. Even so, they kept a greater distance. There was a respect afforded to those who lived underground, in the subterranean caverns under the barrows; with the remnants of the dead. Like the Goblin Queen.

Belle held her bound dolls, fidgeting with them in her lap, then holding them to her heart. A light wind, piercing cold for all of it's gentleness, made a sly path up from behind her, lifting her hair, snaking down her cloak. With it came a rich scent, separate from the cold all around, of cemetery loam, freshly turned, and dewy, white flowers. She looked behind, and saw offerings on the stones, the cairns. Offerings to the dead? To the gods?

The flowers were red and white; red carnations, vivid against stone and snow, and white gardenias, thick and creamy, giving off a lemony, funeral ache. They lay on a bed of moss covered, newly turned earth.

Her brow furrowed, Belle wondered over the flowers, unable to remember if they'd been there when she climbed up. Rising, she went to the arrangement. She took two flowers, a red and a white, with a quiet _thank you_ to whoever listened. They would be a part of her spell. Red life, white spirit. Her blood, Rumpelstiltskin's seed... whatever magic it was that made the strange children and the connection between them... the way they _felt_ one another. The way they visited each others' dreams.

She settled again, winding the flowers into the embrace of the dolls. The crows dispersed, a smoky path headed for the tree-line, and in their wake came two barn owls. Flying low, a long, quiet skimming over the earth. They barely flapped their wings.

Alright, Belle thought. Let this begin, as the Curse has begun. Whether true owls, spirits or Rumpelstiltskin, come to fetch her; let this start. Not knowing any other way to make the magic come, she closed her eyes and let her mind stretch out over the Deadlands. To her home; to the Dark Castle.

 

 

She was in her underground chapel, small owls at the entrance, above. The Imp was curled up on her throne, watching her as she sat below. She was working a spell.

The little ones were learning to trust his presence; his erratic movements and stomping boots. The bigger presence and demands that were specific to males, so different from _her,_ in her bare, dirty-bottomed feet. They played quietly around the two of them, some near her and some near the Imp, capering over the arms and back of the throne. They swung on tendrils of his hair, climbed up the laces of his waistcoat and peeped from his high collar. He let them, and Belle smiled, secretly, to see it. They were little goblins, of a sort. They were his kind, prancing and posturing, giggling in their strange, raspy ways.... wind soughing though the clacking husks of harvest's end. Through the silver-gold leaves that cling to the beech trees, when the others have dropped their leaves.

"Witchy, what are you doing?" the Imp asked, his fingers playing a catch-me game with the little ones.

"Working a spell."

He made a purring sound, and the little ones cooed. He pointed to her things, gathered on the floor near her.

"Your broom that flies, it's ribbons and bells... the fire and smoke and storm, the spider web of lightning... the spirit that watches. _Give me these things_." He sang the last, like a sweet suggestion. The little ones looked out from under batting eyelashes.

She still smiled her secret smile.

"No."

" _Give_ them to me... for the pleasure we share."

She laughed, and all of the little ones joined in, rolling and holding their bellies.

"No. I'm Busy."

He harrumphed in a self important way. The little ones took on his mood, and began to swagger and gesticulate. They pulled faces of indignation, noses in the air.

She laughed again, gathering her ingredients together. She knew the names of goddesses, and honored them with the flowers, herbs and seed they favored. Apple seeds were designed into the shapes of hearts. Abandoned bee hives still dripped with honey. Eucalyptus and tufted stalks of yarrow steeped in blackberry wine, and uncurling parchment gave off the scent of sorcerer's violet and buttered rum.

"Your magic is sensual." The Imp observed.

She looked up at him. "It's for goddesses of love, fertility and sex."

"My favorite kind of goddesses, dearie."

Smiling, she said, "Most mediate over war and death, as well."

"... _Women_."

She smiled, and turned back to see little, shifty infant goblins carefully licking at drops of honey and dipping fingers in the wine. They were sticky, and stained purple-black.

Shaking her head, she closed her eyes and whispered the names. _Inanna, Ishtar. Astarte, Asherah, called Elath._

"What do you wish, witchling?'

"I wish _love_."

Tilting his head at her, he said, "You have love, dearie. It already belongs to you."

"I want it forever. I want it even if our spirits must cross the _sky_ , the ocean... _worlds_."

He unfolded, leaning forward on her throne, forearms on his knees. His eyes blazed at her, pupils stark in his strange, lit irises.

"If you give me your things, I will give you an apple. If you eat of the apple, our hearts will be joined in lifetime after lifetime. When we live in each other's hearts, we will never die."

"I needn't give anything to you, fool. That is already my spell."

His hands reached to encompass her magic; it's silver-green smoke, the storm she made on accident, sweeping it up with her broom; the lightning, like lace; her broom that twitched restlessly, it's bells making a soft song as it reacted to the spirit.

"Give me these things, dearie. I long for them, so. I will lie at your feet and do all that you please, if you would only give me these things."

She regarded his earnest desperation, and smiled again. Her spell affected him. To give him her magic was to give herself, and he longed for her.

"You would be my slave, Imp?" She lifted her chin, knowing it was in play. Each was already enslaved.

"I would, my mistress."

With a smile and a shrug, she said, "Very well."

His eyes grew enormous with unbridled lust, and - wisely, she thought - the little ones scampered off... _poof..._ as he stood, staring down at her, Triumphant.

"The deal is struck." he said.

 

 

Belle opened her eyes.

The dolls were gone, and in her lap was curled a fox, with ivy caught up in it's fur. Owls were everywhere. They were on the ground, dotting the landscape. They stared at her. The fox looked up at her as well, and Belle was frozen in place. Both cold and uncertainty arrested her, and - softly - she said," Did you take my spell into the place where it can be made manifest?"

Standing with a suddenness that unbalanced her, the fox gave a barking yelp, almost a scream; a strange, alarming sound. It loped down the barrow, a flame on sooty feet. One after another, owls lifted in flight.

Then it's done, Belle thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was writing this story, I didn't have a title until this chapter. One of Belle's lines made me immediately think of "Across the Sky", by Emilie Autumn. If you're not familiar with it, it's a gorgeous song, and to me it has the feel of connections repeated over lifetimes, and the uncertainty connected with spirit. (Lines like, "I have put my faith in aberrations of your kind... But even if you're in my mind... Across the sky, I will come to you.")  
> Very pretty!


	23. The Curse

So much had happened, and so quickly. It needled Belle, that it was _she_ who had sped up the process... her damn door. Which, so far, wasn't proving to be especially helpful in matters of practical magic.

Women's work... the very things that led her to love Rumpelstiltskin.... his affinity for the wheel; his understanding of her dreams, her internal workings; she could not bear for these things to change. She could not bear for the world beyond the Deadlands to intrude, and then alter reality. She wanted only Rumpelstiltskin, the solitude of their days, the companionship and ardency of her lover. She even wanted the oddity of the Dark Castle, which murmured it's spells to itself; and the danger, quite relative to the outside world, of the Deadlands. The spirits there... the falling into dream, if she could not control her openness.

She wanted all of these things, and little else. But it was to be no more.

Rumpelstiltskin said he needed to be a prisoner in the dungeons of Snow White and her new husband. _Why_ , Belle wanted to know? It was complex... so bloody complicated. This curse of his involved not only his own child, whom time had stood still, but also children who were not yet even born. It was this very curse he'd been calculating when he'd made a deal with the Queen's mother, for her as yet un-made child. The Queen.

How could his sight go so far? How could he know of individuals who would come ticking into play, like clockwork; tick-tock marionettes, in a land with a different sky?

Sometimes he said 'math', sometimes 'magic'... at any rate, it was vague in the telling. Clearly, it was long, drawn out and rather precise in the doing. Belle was now privy to scroll after scroll , written in Rumpelstiltskin's meticulous hand, (with the occasional loop-de-loop flair). And there _were_ numbers, long calculations that made no sense to her at all. She couldn't understand how they related to magic. To the Curse. Numbers, mingling with letters, pictures... symbols.

He'd been planning this, working on it for _so long_. It was astounding.

He said he needed something from Snow White; the name of her baby.... And how he knew she was carrying a child, Belle could not imagine. Or that Snow White would know the child's name.... it seemed so much was left to chance. But Rumpelstiltskin, more focused and intense than she'd ever him, said -no, it wasn't chance. It was each piece of a big puzzle, falling into place at last.

The only element of chance, he'd said, was her.

His impulse to bring her to the Dark Castle. The surprise of love, of passion. The unexpected opening of the door within her, and the thing it revealed that had been so long obscured.

And so, he mused, he now wondered if even those things were chance. In the telling, she was less a door, and more a key.

She could never conceal her emotions... they were plain on her face, no matter how she tried to hide them. She must have been as easy to read as always, for Rumpelstiltskin cupped her face in his warm hands, dry heat.

He said, "You were never only a piece of the puzzle, Belle; no matter how this plays out. You were never only a step to completing the Curse. Don't think it, dearie."

She nodded, uncertain.

"Do you know how much I've wanted to let go of... _all_ of this? It shames me, Belle, that I could. Just like I let Bae go the first time, I could let it happen again. So many times... I've told myself he's fine. Better, in fact, without me. Because I can't bear to part from you, my love."

Belle nodded again, looking down. She couldn't even bear to _think_ on it, _separation_ ; but the time had arrived. He would get himself captured by Snow White's guard, all for a name. He only scoffed when Belle fretted that they might kill him... he was the Dark One, after all.

He still had many fears, but bodily harm wasn't one of them. "Let them try," he smiled broadly at her. Twirling his hands, the green odd against his long, lace cuffs, he added, "It would be _funny_. In fact, they'll come to me in the dungeons because they'll need me. Once Regina announces her Curse, I become something of an ally."

"A dangerous one. They'll never trust you."

"Aye. But their need, their fear of what's to come... will be stronger than their mistrust."

"How can you _know_ , Rumpel?"

He pulled her into his lap, cradling her. She felt like a child at story-time. His impending departure _had_ left her in a very childlike mode. She could only whimper and mope. And _wait_. She prayed that her spell took form.

"Well... I _am_ the Dark One, dearie." he told her, teasing with his voice, his eyes. His fingers played at her bodice. " I am _sighted_ , though it's a tiresome business. Tricky. Some things, however, aren't tricky at all. They're so easy, so predictable... especially when you've lived as long as I have. I really don't even need _sight_. People... are easy. Too easy. Each step Regina would take, exactly how and when Snow White and the Prince will react... those things are so easy to read, they could be scripted. Written down for others to play out. Don't you worry for me, dearie."

"I can't help it." Belle sniffled.

"I know, my love." He kissed her, a warm, searching nuzzle. Belle buried her hands in his hair.

"I love you, so." he sighed against her lips.

"And I love you." Belle returned. She bit back the rest, the parts that stormed inside her. The flailing panic, the tears, the tantrums; cries of _don't leave me!_ He must have known they were there... he held her close, rocking her like the child she was reverting to.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He'd told Belle to stay at the Dark Castle. It would see to her needs in his absence, and - once the curse struck - it would no longer matter.

He'd come to truly know she loved him; but, he reflected, she'd never really been one to _obey_ him.

There she was, striding past the guard who was escorting her. He was giving the usual spiel... do not trust, do not engage... But Belle had broken into a run, startling the soldier who imagined he protected her. Her cowl fell back, and even in the grim squalor of the dungeon; dirt, stone, iron; her autumn-russet hair was burnished and glowing in the torchlight. A living thing.

"Belle!"

She all but crashed into the cage that held him. Wood, enchanted by Faerie... it made him cringe with loathing, and yet the very enchantment made to hold him was weakened by the iron in the dungeon.

"Rumpel!"

She pressed against the bars, and Rumpelstiltskin almost felt sorry for the soldier. He looked so shocked and puzzled, so uncertain as to his responsibility in this unusual turn of events.

But the bells were tolling.

"Run along, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin told him, making shooing motions. "The Curse comes, and there will be chaos, upstairs. My wife need fear nothing from me."

So, it was a lie. He _was_ a liar. In his heart, it was true.

The guard, spooked, stumbled off, and Rumpelstiltskin kissed Belle through the bars. He belatedly thought, gods... he must stink. And he must look even more heinous than usual... lank hair, filthy clothes...

Belle didn't seem to care. In all of her dewy freshness, her soft, petal lips and honey-scented skin, storm-smoky hair; she kissed him urgently, finding his tongue with hers, surprising him by waking his body... in this rank place.

"Husband." she murmured, smiling against his mouth.

He smiled back, and said, "I smell the tower room on you."

"Yes. It's where I've been staying."

They kissed again, and Rumpelstiltskin snaked his hand through the bars to cup and fondle her breasts. How absurd, to be hard as a rock, caged like a rat behind bars.

"I've missed you so." he said, still nuzzling to her mouth, about her face.

"Me too. Every second. I've been wearing your clothes."

"Indeed?" he raised and eyebrow.

Belle smiled, laughing a little. She was crying as well.

"It's coming." she said. "They're going mad out there, running and scrambling, as if preparing for battle. But there's naught to fight.... Just a big, black cloud rolling in, so slowly... like a tidal wave, Rumpel. It's frightful to see."

"I know, my love."

"Will it hurt?"

"No. There will be no pain. You'll just wake up, and be somewhere else."

"And... maybe someone else."

"Aye."

They stared at one another, breath almost matched. Then Belle let her cloak fall to the floor. She began undoing the laces of her dress.

"What are you doing?" Rumpelstiltskin gasped... she always shocked him. "The _Curse_ , Belle."

"I need you, Rumpel. I want you... I want to be with you as _myself_... as _ourselves_... at least once more before it's all changed."

Gods, her breasts, so vulnerable in this hellish place... so full and pale and pink-tipped. He gathered her as well as he could, and greedily sucked her into his mouth. Let the fucking guards come, then. It didn't matter, anymore. Would the other world find them this way... tangled strangers?

He registered the falling of her skirt, growing even harder with the knowledge that she'd come to him, naked beneath her dress. His fingers found her pussy, so wet, and he thrust his two middle fingers inside her. He was dizzy on her cries, her scent, pumping her. She was stark naked but for stocking and boots, clinging to the bars, pressing as much of herself as she could between them.

Heart pounding, hurting, Rumpelstiltskin fell to his knees. He got one of her legs through the bars, hoisting it over his shoulder, and he licked hungrily at her pussy. So pink, hot wet... vivid at her core. He pushed his tongue inside her, getting her all over his face. Her hips rocked, all but fucking his tongue, her cries filling the dark, cavernous cells.

Senses overwhelmed, he turned his head aside, kissing her thigh, then biting it. Looking up at her, he burst into a rather throaty laugh.

Holding the bars, Belle smiled down at him.

"I _know_..." she blushed. ".... this silly, mad desire to _rut_."

Her eyes were going liquid with tears, and he couldn't have it. Gently letting her leg down, he said, "One moment, my love."

Retrieving the scrap of parchment he'd tucked into the stone wall, full of crevices, he thought.... a wee bit of this magic, reserved for a distant future... it can be spared.

"What is that?" Belle asked, so adorable in her blushing nudity. Flushed cheeks, bruised mouth.

"The name of Snow White's child", he said, holding the parchment aloft. "Written in a magical ink that will open this cage."

"Rumpel! You could get out whenever you want!"

He grinned at her, and blew a little row of _Emmas_ from the parchment. The ink rose, twining scents of seaweed and an old wind over crumbling stone, as in the Deadlands. Belle backed up a pace, and then there was a small opening in the bars. Small, but enough for her to stoop and push through.

Then she was in his arms.... warm, luscious, naked, fevered.... _trusting, willing, open_... Belle. Rumpelstiltskin's hands moved everywhere, wanting her so desperately. Their urgency was hounded by the ceaseless bells, above. Would the dwarves never stop the incessant tolling? The Curse was here, alarm or no.

Belle's hands moved over him. warm and fumbling with his clothes, making him think, again, on the state he was in. Her impatience at his trousers made the concern less important... once his cock was in her hand... _both_ hands, that made a steady, dizzying stroking, the backs of her fingers brushing against his belly... he was lost. His balls felt tight and hot, hips already moving with the squeeze of muscles in his groin.

Mouth open and hot against Belle's, he pulled her to the rough ground, and was above her, claiming her. _His_. He rubbed the head of his cock against her pussy, astounded by her heat.... The way she always felt so wet for him. He thrust inside of her, balls deep.

She was right... It was a _mad_ desire to rut. Mad, like stags hell-bent on killing one another, lips curled and voices terrifying as they fight for the doe. _Mad_. And, heightened with pleasure though their urgency was, it was also filled with sorrow. Grieving. This is _not_ the last, _not_ the end, Rumpelstiltskin's mind shouted. His hips pounded, his arms beneath Belle to protect her from the cold ground. To try and hold her with him, forever.

That was the contract... now, and going back eons. Forever.

Their cries mingled together, moans and gasps as their bodies , that knew one another so well, surged and clenched and rocked, aching and yearning. He became aware that they both truly cried, their faces wet with tears. He buried his face in Belle's hair, shouting against her neck as he came, pumping into her, feeling her go impossibly tight around him as her climax took her.

It took her away from him, he knew. He'd always known... She was briefly hurled through her door, into her not-place. Light, and yet blindness... the spirits who loved her were there. But then she was back... right back with him. Storms inside of her settled, and it was clear - had always _been_ clear - that no matter where she journeyed, she was tethered to him.

They lay still, breathing into one another, until Rumpelstiltskin recovered enough to sit upright, to pull Belle into his lap. She curled there... She was such a mixture of full-blooded, voluptuous woman; and yet elusive, imaginative, perhaps lonely child. His chest ached, that place where she made him hurt; his abused heart. He held her hand to it, to sooth him and to feel it's beating. His hand seemed so big over her small hand. That child's hand, touching him as a woman would.

"You are my match, my love. My mate. In every way."

Belle made a little sob against his chest, nodding her head. A warm, little movement.

Rumpelstiltskin saw the first tendrils, feelers of smoke, uncurling in a wicked way.... like tentacles or serpents, winding blindly, by scent, down the dungeon's dark corridor. Coming for them.

He realized, then; the silence... The bells no longer tolled. The people no longer shouted. They were likely the last, here in the darkness.

He didn't want Belle to see. He held her so close, arms folded around her, even his legs wrapped around her. His hand held her head warmly to his chest, and he closed his eyes.

　

　

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter...


	24. A New World

Rumpelstiltskin looked at himself in the mirror. He could do that, now, with more ease than in years past. Now he was like everyone else, at least on the surface. He passed amongst them, a wolf in sheep's clothing, and sometimes he even bleated.... Just for show.

The Curse was his, but the details were Regina's; she who had worked it so deftly, once committed. Sometimes he felt proud of her.

He was now called Mr. Gold, one of her details. It seemed a little obvious, but it worked. It played to the power he held in this land, so different from his power at home. No one shrank from his skin; his otherworldly, staring eyes. In fact, he'd come to understand he might be considered attractive. He was distinguished, now. A man of a certain age, whose silvered sideburns made a rakish contrast to his wardrobe of black; a cut above the rest of the _riff-raff_.

Of course, _he_ could see it... _himself_. Beneath the expensive suits, the impishness he'd toned down to a dry, sardonic wit, the mystery and even dignity of his walking stick; sleek, ebony, silver-tipped, nothing like the gnarled stave of wood with which he'd once hauled himself about; Beneath it all, tucked away in a cozy house that, nevertheless, bespoke his wealth, was that little man. The runt. The cripple, his injured bones felt more fully in this world, where magic couldn't disguise the weakness.

He saw it; _Rumpelstiltskin_. But others saw Mr. Gold. Their memories told them they'd _always_ seen Mr. Gold. Their minds could not conjure him any other way, and the face he remembered from centuries ago; the dark, hooded, almond-shaped eyes, the long nose and gauntness; was perceived differently, now.

It had not been a face that was loved, in his homeland. It was a hungry face, a desperate face. A face too pared down and fearful and a body too small to ever be seen as strong... as able to care for and protect a family. It had been a haunted face, and haunted him, still.

But here.... Oh, men had it better, here. The basic ideals of manhood had not changed much, but in the actual _living_... that was a different story. Men got away with murder. Or, in fact, cowardice. As a norm.

His face had transformed, without changing at all from his human face of old, into shrewdness. Cleverness. It was associated with wealth, and - in turn - mystery. Wealth was important anywhere, but here... it brought him security and information in a manner that was nearly as reliable as magic. It brought allure; personal magnetism. Respect.

Unlike magic, it had the power to make him rather handsome. Dark, yes; though no one knew of the Dark One. His darkness now intrigued rather than repelled. Well... except for those he'd made fearful. People needed to be kept in check, after all.

Regina had turned out to be something of a surprise. As in the homeland, the two of them were quite separate, and yet something of a matched pair in the eyes of others. The eyes of the sheeple, as was the linguist turn in this world. He enjoyed the free, casual play of wording, _slang_ ; constant changes and tweeks to the common tongue. It was fun... he'd always loved the trickiness, cleverness of playing with words.

Regina, now Madam Mayor rather than Her Majesty, was ever in the center of things. She lived near her little, downtown Storybrooke, her house a mansion. Stark, white, rich and regal. A vanity of apple trees. Very different from his stonework, expansive cottage, full of colors and antiques, hidden in the woods. His house was warm with autumn colors; glowing, stained glass. Framed in iron.

Different, but the same. People of power, houses made of money. He and Regina had wardrobes that were as sleek and dark as their old wardrobes had vied for ostentatious glamor. They could be FBI partners, glaring and flashing badges; granted access that others weren't.

She wore her obvious power in town, in a public position. His power, emanating from his secluded home, condensed in his little pawn shop in the town, was much more murky than hers. Hard to pin down. Behind the scenes and ever present.

Both were feared, and yet no one feared him for something so simple as his skin. It was all rather scrumptiously complex.

One of the quirks of this complexity was that Regina's memory was fully intact, a purposeful provision so that she might enjoy what was meant to be her revenge. Over Snow White. Over the sheeple. Poor Regina, with that unfillable, black hole in her muddled heart. Poor dearie.

As he'd planned, his memory was fully intact as well... it could be no other way if he was to find Baelfire. And that was where the surprise of Regina began; the fun he sometimes had with her.

He _knew_ she remembered, but she didn't _know_ he knew. _Or_ that he remembered. Oh, how he enjoyed playing with her, now.... dropping little hints, feigning complete ignorance and innocence; so much easier to do in his human face. The confusion in her dark eyes, the uncertainty... the way she struggled to control the way her lip wanted to snarl with regality; the scar there capable of giving men, even himself, a stray and dirty, mongrel thought.

She was so much easier to control, here, as well. The irony was that his control, the leash on this fine bitch, fell within the parameters of the Curse she'd cast. He had only to say 'please' to put her down.... and he'd _always_ been polite.

Initially, coming to himself in this world, he hadn't thought to be especially vindictive towards Regina. She had, after all, kept her word on a few particulars pertaining to himself when she loosed the Curse. However, it seemed she had ideas about haranguing him... even hurting him.... and so his small, perhaps petty moments of revenge were a regular pleasure. A hobby, like musing over a crossword puzzle.

Why had she honed in on Belle as she did? Rumpelstiltskin couldn't understand it. It wasn't jealousy, that much was certain. For some reason it had amused her to no end that he'd loved Belle so well, wanted her so much. It amused her even more that Belle loved him back.... no end of hilarity, there.

People everywhere in Storybrooke woke up with new identities, false memories, and yet many were still themselves. Mary Margaret, once Snow White, was as much a white-hat do-gooder as ever she was. But somehow, for some reason - bitch that she was - Regina had woken Belle with a different _personality_.

Lacey. What sort of name was that?

Rumpelstiltskin was nothing if not patient. His countless years of working towards Baelfire, _so close now_ , bore witness to his patient, meticulous mind. Belle had challenged that... he'd become a man whose heart ached and raced, a man - a monster - full of love and desire, and those things had no use for patience. They _wanted_. They _needed_. They pained and yearned for fulfillment... they hurt until touched.

And now, Lacey. She was driving him mad, all the more so because somewhere... somewhere within Lacey was Belle. If he had an urge to slap the smirk off of Lacey's face... or hell, simply to _say_ something to get rid of it... he would be slapping Belle; speaking rudely to Belle. If he succumbed to her near constant teasing and fucked her until her bones rattled, he'd be venting his frustrated, vengeful sex upon Belle... but _without_ her. Oddly, maddeningly unfaithful.

In Lacey's company he was reduced from darkly attractive, mysteriously powerful; to a monkish, stuttering, possibly lecherous yet solitary old man; leaning heavily on a cane while his eyes roved; it must be said - _fearfully_ ; over the near naked body that was... _Belle's_. Except it was Lacey's.

Lacey loved it; her power over him. Unlike Belle, who had experimented and learned about her sexuality... it's hold over him... driven by love, her own desire.... Lacey required no such experimentation. She _knew_. She had no doubts as to the charms of her body, the arresting affect of her insinuating glances, the curl of her lip, a stray touch in completely false innocence. He was uncertain if this guttersnipe was actually drawn to him, perhaps driven by Belle; or if she simply enjoyed watching him squirm.

And gods, the way she dressed! As it was, it had taken Rumpelstiltskin awhile to get used to the way women dressed in this world, regardless of the woman. Even when they were covered from head to toe, suddenly he was in a world where crotches and arses were everywhere. Plain as day, walking around beneath snug jeans, slacks... _leggings_. Nipples standing out in relief against the flimsy material of blouses and tee-shirts; skirts so short that, when bending over or sitting down, there was a flash of panties, (mere scraps of meaningless fabric, as was the pseudo-armor that was a _bra_ ), of arse-cheek, of thighs meeting in less than secret places.

Except Lacey, of course. On at least one occasion it had seemed she had no use for panties. And he was left wondering... was it deliberate? Had she intended to give him the little peep of pussy... which he was startled to see was _shaved_. He felt proprietary over it; it was _his._ It had been absconded by this other personality and _altered_. And then, after the shock of the exhibition abated somewhat, he felt ill to think that Lacey might let anyone see her body. Belle's body. Someone might touch her... he would then have to indulge his occasional whims of homicide.

It did seem that she was fixated on him, however. He thought perhaps the denuded pubis shouldn't come as surprise, given that Lacey was happiest when playing Lolita to what Regina happily called his Humbert Humbert; everyone magically up on the literature of this world.... staring meaningfully at the bulge of his tailored crotch while licking an ice cream cone. It was confusing enough to have Belle arrive in this coquettish package, but the _tease_... He'd been _inside_ this girl, who was yet a stranger to him. He knew her taste. He'd made her scream and swoon in pleasure. He'd made her sweet, pouting and now estranged and _mocking_ pussy _gush_ , and then he'd licked and licked.

Well. He worked himself into a regular frenzy over Lacey, wanting her in a way that was and was not the same as wanting Belle. He missed Belle, so. He was so lonely for her, his body responding to Lacey and causing confusion; then sorrow. Regina seemed to love it. In return, he loved to make her fret. He loved to undermine her confidence. He had a way of referring to the hold she had on the heart of that boy-toy Sheriff she snuck into her bed... and, oh how lovely the sudden fear in her eyes.

Did he know? Did he know who she was? Who they all were? Did he know about her vault, and her collection - so like her mother's - of _hearts_?

Oh, yes. Yes, he did.

And if he was over-zealous in his rush of pleasure, if he said a little too much, if her eyes were a little too wide; he had only to say 'please.' Poor dearie.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He'd been working, trying to create _something_... a spell, a potion.... that would restore Belle to herself. It was true, though. If this land had ever had magic, it was so long dissipated and forgotten as to be non-existent. Every time he thought he was coming close, he had... nothing. Words. Materials. Memories. Thoughts and intentions that were those things, alone; no matter what the gurus of this place preached. They knew nothing of magic.

His spinning wheel had come to this world with him, and was in his basement. It rather _lurked_ , like a secret perversion. He spun, wool now, for the most part. It still calmed him, and he was still lulled into a trance-like state, rocking a bit with the treadle... hands in motion, eyes turned inward.

Less and less did he see the future. More and more, like and old, old man, he saw the past.

It all came to naught as far as restoring Belle was concerned.... And yet, something began to happen. It was slippery and uncertain; and still.... he thought he began to see glimpses of Belle.

 

 

But first, there was The Incident. The Incident was Lacey, who made one of her regular visits to his shop to torment him. Perhaps it was her hobby, like Regina was his.... But he was uncertain of Lacey's motivation. She'd gone rather far on the day of The Incident.... those insane high heels, lengthening her legs, pushing out both bum and breasts so that she was a walking invitation. She'd leaned over his counter, her little wisp of skirt riding up more than usual.

Yes, he was excited by her. Her frank display, the very real possibility of losing himself for awhile, pleasuring himself in the further exploitation of her body. But he was also _angry._ It seemed like practically her entire bum was in sight, the familiar heart shape made unfamiliar by her stiletto heels; and he watched her legs inch apart, as if finding a more comfortable position, while she flipped through a magazine. Her attitude was one of boredom and complete unawareness of the heightened tumult going on at her hind end, and Rumpelstiltskin actually felt a little nauseous. In spite of the tease.

This was Belle's body and Lacey was showing it to anyone. The thought of men in The Rabbit Hole watching her bend over the pool table made him ill. Did they touch her? Did they _fuck_ her?

Gorge rising, he made two quick strides to where Lacey demonstrated her pornographic pose, and he gave her bum a hard, echoing slap.

It just happened. He didn't mean for it to happen. It was, truly, an embarrassing loss of control... he would soon be visited by the Sheriff. Or Regina. He stared, stupefied, at the red handprint blooming on her creamy, white flesh. He stared at his own hand.

Lacey, having yelped in shock, no longer looked bored. Nor, however, did she abandon her position. She looked up at him, an incredulous, amazed look on her face. Her cherry-red mouth was open, but a smile was dawning, her eyes lit. He thought she bent a little lower, made the dip in the small of her back deeper. More of her was bared.

"Mr. _Gold_." she said, almost laughing, and yet breathy. She liked it. He stood, feeling as if he fell to pieces, hands useless at his sides. How strange it was when she called him by that other name.... in that voice.... Belle's, but roughened. With experience.

"Go home and put some clothes on." he said, voice harsh and husky.

"I don't think you want me to do that." Lacey said, smiling fully, now.

He didn't. He wanted the smile tamed, her full lips around his enraged cock. The way she looked over her shoulder, her eyes so big and blue... pupils wide open. The way she _presented_ herself to him. He was rapidly losing it. All of _it_.

He reached for shreds of sanity; the peculiar civility of this world... where women were nearly naked, sex was casual, and yet there were rules, protocol... boundaries, no means no... He gripped the counter with one hand, supporting himself, and said, "You can't go about like this, Lacey. You'll get hurt."

"Oh... You mean like you just hurt me?" Reproachful pout, the smile still in her eyes. For once, she was blushing. It made him ache for Belle.

Then she said, " You know what, Mr. Gold? I only do this for you."

Did.... _what_? "Whatever do you mean, dearie?"

"Touch me, and I'll tell you."

"Touch you."

"Mm hm."

Her bum made an enticing, swaying motion, the high heels making everything taut with anticipation; hovering over a moment.

"Feel how wet I am." she whispered.

Oh, that did it. He wasn't going to make it out of this encounter. He would never find Bae or retrieve Belle. He was going to die a humiliating, human death, clutching at his seizing heart. They would find him, rigor mortis having frozen his erection humiliatingly in place.

To gain a little control, he slapped her again. It didn't help. This time, she didn't yelp... she sighed, her eyes closing briefly. The slap pushed her forward; she let herself rock back again, filling his palm with her reddened cheek. It was over, any semblance of his resolve gone. He stroked her there, where her flesh was warm. He saw that she did, actually, wear panties... one of those useless little thongs; a slingshot in silky black. Her backside was all in fairytale colors; black, white, red. Moving the little ribbon of fabric aside, he stroked between her legs.

He closed his eyes.... the feeling of naked smoothness was strange, but this was his Belle. Her heat, astounding at her core... her _wetness_. Belle.... Lacey.... she was dripping. She sighed and cooed as he stroked, up and down her slit, a wet slide of fingers. He couldn't stop himself... he slid two fingers inside of her, feeling her squeeze. She moaned, taking in shuddering breaths, encouraging him with her hips.

" _This_ is what I mean." she said, breathless, eyes closed. Flushed, no longer imperious. "Once, I took off my panties before I came to see you." Yes, he remembered. "I want you to _see_ me. Notice me.... I'm not like this all the time. I just like.... to _show_ you. To tease you, and see if you'll call me out. I get so excited when you're looking at me. I like the way you talk, the way you say, 'dearie'.... I like the way you _smell_. You just always act like you're so much better than me... so above me..."

She opened her eyes and smiled, hips rocking with his attention. "I had to, I don't know, shock you into seeing me, I guess. To get you to react, for once. I wanted your attention, Mr. Gold."

"It seems you have it, dearie."

Her eyes closed. "You're not better than me. You _want_ me."

"Yes..."

"Make me come, please, Mr. Gold..."

And so he did. Without further words, using his hand, his fingers. He leaned heavily on the counter, mouth slack, all too aware of his blood-flow and the seizing of his heart. He watched Lacey's face, rather than her bared flesh; the shock of his hand, working her. Her eyes closed, mouth open, cheeks flushed.... the heat that rolled off of her... It was like double vision, seeing both Lacey and Belle. Her soft cries, lost in breath, and way she seemed to stop breathing, altogether, just before the squeeze on his fingers became impossibly tight.

He knew, when the release shuddered through her, a surprising decorum making her swallow back, muffle her cry; that she was _gone_ for a moment. For a moment, there was no Mr. Gold. There was only the force that took her away from herself; out of this world.

And then she was back. Her legs went weak, and he managed to gather himself enough to move closer, to support her. Though he, himself, needed support. "Come along, dearie." he tried to say, but really only whispered.

Arms around her, he walked her to his back room. Interesting... now she was tugging down her skirt, covering up. He led her to a cot he kept, amongst the spillage of the shop, and sat down with relief. Instantly, she cuddled up to him, her hand... Belle's small hand, the same bitten nails... her hand caressed over his thigh and warmly palmed his cock.

Rumpelstiltskin groaned, a knot of fevered desire, but he pulled her hand away. It was strange, how the little-girl-ness of her hand struck him so much more forcefully here than at home. He held her hand in his, finally bringing it to rest on his chest.

"Don't you want me to?" Lacey asked. Her voice, more frank than Belle's. The confusion of it made him start to wonder over his own changes.... When he could make Belle fully present again, would he be strange to her? A mere man. Would she like it? Would she know him?

Eyes closed, he rolled the back of his skull against the wall. "No, dearie."

" _No?"_ Her voice expressed plain disbelief.

Opening his eyes, he looked at her, smiling at her expression. While Belle didn't quite meet the expectations of highborn ladies, she _had_ been schooled to nobility. She kept a cautious politeness about her face. Lacey, on the other hand, gave the furrowed brow and sardonically snarled lip of the teenagers he saw about town. Any moment now, she would become sullenly cavalier and say, _'whatever'._ So dismissive. Such an implication of the older person's feebleness.

With a chuckle, he said, "Alright, yes. I want you to. But don't, dearie."

"Why?" she snuggled again, her body at ease against him. She rubbed against him like a cat.

"Just don't."

Her expression became curious. Rather than becoming sullen, she gave him a kiss on the cheek. "You like me, though, don't you?" She smiled.

Keeping her hand captured at his chest, he said, "Indeed."

"Okay." she said, and lay her head on his shoulder.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After The Incident, Belle began to appear. Lacey was still Lacey, with her own memories and none of Belle's. And yet... Belle began to spill out, everywhere.

The very next time Rumpelstiltskin saw Lacey... Gods, she really did look like a little girl. At home, his own strangeness, the fact that he'd lived for generations before Belle was ever born, seemed to make age rather irrelevant. He hadn't given it much thought, as green skin and homicidal ideations always managed to steal the show.

In Storybrooke it was usually perceived that he was twenty years or so older than Lacey... And that was a scandalous and sometimes comical thing. A drop in time, he wanted to say. A blip. But time-lines, life experience; it was all very different, here.

When he saw Lacey, scrubbed free of the heavy make-up she'd been wearing, hair in a loose ponytail, wearing baggy jeans and high-top sneakers under a somewhat snug tee-shirt; even _he_ felt as if their connection was inappropriate. He swallowed, wondering why he'd never seen Belle in such a childlike light. Small things came back; Belle's inability to bear his distraction, or any separation; her _trust_. He realized, quite belatedly, she was just a girl. A slip of a girl. He was all she'd known of men, of sex. Of so many things.

He didn't question the change in Lacey's wardrobe, afraid to interrupt whatever was happening. Plenty of others did, though. Ruby and Granny for a start, both asking, "What _happened_ to you?" Ruby with dismay; Granny in approval. (How had he come out on the side of _Granny_?)

With a shrug, Lacey said, "I got tired of making myself a cripple in those god-awful heels. And freezing to death all the time. I think this is more me."

Granny smiled; Ruby wore a mask of tragedy.

Rumpelstiltskin merely ordered for himself and Lacey, who seemed content to let him, and contemplated the neon-colored, cartoon octopus splashed across her breasts. What was that all about?

The next sign was the library; Lacey became a regular. Her Rabbit Hole barstool was traded in for a library card and one of the library's cozy, overstuffed chairs, tucked into a window nook. She made frequent stops at his shop, even his house, her arms loaded down with books. Sometimes she had a backpack slung over one shoulder, bulging from her latest trip to the library.

The backpack had a repeating pattern of owls. Cartoon owls, in psychedelic colors, round eyes startled and goofy, but still. They were duly noted.

She never repeated her blatant, sexual come-on, but she cuddled. She hugged and held his hand and _pet_. It was difficult to bear. The fact that she was undeterred by his constant demurring, the way he held back, reminded him so much of Belle. Truly, it was because of Belle that he held back. The desire to tell himself that this was her, _this is Belle, you blithering idiot..._ warm and real and here... it was overwhelming. He wanted to take Lacey to bed so badly, but a persistent faithfulness kept him paralyzed. He just couldn't take her body, that way, until she _remembered_. Until she, Belle, _knew_.

He told Lacey it was the age difference, and - startled as he now was by her youth - he almost believed it, himself. The whole, bloody town seemed to smirk, and he saw the picture they made. He, in his expensive suits, silver in his hair, walking with a gleaming cane. And Lacey, now that she'd shed her sex-vixen-bar-goddess image, was ever at his side; bouncing along in her jeans, sneakers and an endless array of pop-culture tee-shirts. Super Girl. Some awful zombie motif, worse than ogres.  _Hello Kitty_?

Even he could see that she looked like his daughter. Or, _fucking hell,_ his grand-daughter. It was surprising how much her costume; the make up and attitude; had imparted a sort of rough maturity before.

 

 

 

One day Chloe turned up. Rumpelstiltskin hadn't known that she'd crossed over, and seeing her appear out of the woods made him ridiculously happy. he held her, nuzzling into her squirming purr, smelling earth, and a resinous, piney scent.

When Lacey arrived, she was charmed beyond the telling. "When did you get a _cat_?"

"Today, dearie. She wandered in from somewhere."

"She'd so _cute_!" Lacey played with Chloe, petting her and cradling her, and Rumpelstiltskin couldn't help but feel that Chloe _remembered_. Was that possible? Firstly, she was a cat... he was uncertain about feline memory, generally speaking. But could Chloe's memory have survived the Curse?

 

 

　

Chloe released to explore her new surroundings, Lacey turned her attentions to him.

She smelled of Belle. For a long time, she hadn't, and it had been somewhat off-putting. She'd smelled of perfume, smoky and a little sweet. She'd smelled as all women did, here; deodorized and neutralized, walking about in a fog of vaguely floral or citrus scents that came from make-up, hairspray, lotions, shampoos.... Lacey had smelled subtly of drink, strongly of mouthwash and a gum so minty, it was cold and metallic if he stood close to her.

She still smelled of some of those things, but gone was the overwhelming aura of make-up, perfume and hairspray. Gone was the bourbon, or the sickly sweet lemon drops or Schnapps.

Something warm... perfume? He didn't know. Something amber-honey-vanilla, a subtle yet lush, creamy magnolia... it emanated from her hair, her skin. Soft and full of heat, it troubled him deeply as she pressed herself to him. She hugged him from behind, caressing his chest and belly, hands intimate beneath his jacket.

As if lost in the same revery of memory, sensuality, she sighed and said, "You always smell so good to me."

He remembered the divine laziness of spending half the morning in Belle's bed, the bedclothes smelling of sleep, sex; their combined scents. They'd crawled all over one another, playing like puppies, scenting each other, drowning in bliss.

God, it hurt.

He was coming to know Lacey, more. To like her a great deal. But he missed his lover, who had known him so well.

He was beginning to realize some of what Belle must have gone through, processing and accepting the different parts of himself. Man and demon. And so on. For a long awhile he'd seen Lacey as an intruder, a body-snatcher; Regina's joke on him. Now he could see that she was a part of Belle. What he'd always seen as Belle's bravery, her initiative... it was there, in Lacey. It was just expressed differently.

Lacey, in her sullen, rebellious, precociously over-sexed and uncaring attitudes.... She was Belle as an unloved girl. A girl who'd always been on her own in the world, betrayed and exploited by those meant to care for her. By those she'd wanted to trust. There was a bit of Goblin Queen in her. It kept coming back to him... her need to establish that he liked her, he wasn't _above_ her.

That hurt, too.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It happened when Regina was in his shop, having taken a little time out of her busy schedule to pop in for some light ribbing.

" _My_ , Lacey seems changed. " That caramel-rich voice. Chocolate covered cherries. Her talents were wasted in this cursed, little, theater-set town. "What did you _do_ to her, Gold?"

Such insinuation. He continued polishing the complicated pieces of brass and copper, an astrolabe he'd found amongst his things. Like Chloe, pieces of his other life kept turning up. Unlike Chloe, they were just relics, here. Quaint. Paper weights and center pieces... that new artifact that made him shudder; the yard ornament.

A flash caught his eye and he looked up, past Regina's mauve and black ensemble of sleek, sexy efficiency. A rounded bubble of a car, bright yellow and candy-like, was parked across the street. He watched the woman who got out as she slammed the door shut and looked around.

She was tall, athletic looking and attractive, dressed causally in jeans and a leather jacket, pale blonde hair stirring in the breeze. Yet, for all of her casual ease, as a woman of this world, he saw a gleaming around her. A white purity that _shone_ , and was related to morality not at all. She looked to him as if she wore a knight's armor, and he _knew_.

She'd arrived. Soon, the curse wouldn't hold. Belle would remember. He could leave Storybrooke, memory intact, and find Bae.

"What?" Regina asked, following his gaze and turning around.

Rumpelstiltskin smiled as Henry appeared, an all-boy, Hogwarts apparition, from the passenger side of the car. Regina's gasp and sudden, complete distraction was glorious. So much for the spare time in which to call him 'Daddy', or "Creepy Uncle Gold'.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

.... But it was taking forever. Emma was an interesting woman, but not all-embracing of the title, 'savior'. There was a long, soap-opera story to enact of two mothers, one son, and the truth.... or the lie of who everyone here was.

Life plodded on.

Lacey took to hanging around, of all people, Mary Margaret; that sturdy, little pixie. Snow White, who was the antithesis, really, of the person Lacey had been when they all first became aware.

It made some sense... Mary Margaret was a mothering woman, nurturing. Both Lacey and Belle lacked such a figure in their lives. As had he, but he couldn't see himself enduring the encouraging, yet somewhat pedantic presence of Mary Margaret and her diminutive, assessing gaze.

Lacey was fascinated by Mary Margaret's volunteer work with injured birds. (As far as he could tell, Mary Margaret volunteered to help injured or needy _everything_.) She'd become a helper, herself, wearing a bird-head puppet on her hand in order to feed baby birds, while keeping them imprinted on their own species. She became a chatterbox about the birds, cuddled to him in her sock feet, head against his chest. Rumpelstiltskin kept his arms around her, warm and protective, and closed his eyes. It was hard not to call her _Belle_ in these moments, as Belle was present, more and more.

He listened to stories of how unbelievably tiny baby hummingbirds were, and of how vultures weren't the villains everyone made them out to be... how they followed Lacey around like dogs at feeding time, all of them shuffling in a side-to-side hop.

His eyes opened as she grew more intense, speaking of owls. "I love them." she said, her voice quite serious. She loved their rounded, person-like faces; their eyes, whether dark or yellow. She loved their voices, their little shows of affection; clicking of beaks and cat-like, trilling purrs.

"I feel like they know me." she said, mysterious, even to herself.

"They do, dearie."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As it happened, he was her landlord. He was everyone's landlord, residential and commercial renters alike. As in the homeland, he didn't spare much thought for ethics when it came to snooping about Lacey's apartment.

He'd done it from the start, but typically came away disappointed. For the longest time, there had been little to reveal even Lacey, much less Belle. Lacey had kept a Spartan emptiness hand in hand with a sluttish messiness; but, since The Incident; she'd begun nesting. Bookshelves and books appeared first; soon after, the walls became decorated with pictures of warm-toned landscapes, pictures of owls and crows; one windswept, black and white photograph that so resembled the Deadlands, for a moment Rumpelstiltskin thought he might be losing his mind a little.

It was rather cute, he thought, that she somewhat mimicked his house. She hadn't his money or resources, so her efforts were homespun and thrifty. Yet there was a new warmth, a coziness in her apartment. Her colors were his... rich, autumn earth tones; touches of merlot, amber, cobalt. Instead of stained glass, she had colored, glass bottles on a windowsill. It was sweet to see her come to know herself, and sweet to see his own influence.

As he always did, comfortable and shameless, he sat on her bed and read through her journal. It had always been a mish-mash of to-do or shopping lists, brief outlines of dreams, and sometimes something approaching a true journal entry. Never had she been one to write poetry or anything remotely lyrical, but her entry of that morning was very different.

Sometimes she wrote as if for an audience, (and perhaps she _did_ address an audience; perhaps she knew or suspected his intrusion). To her readers, she'd written, "I woke up with this jumbled up in my head, and so here it is. I don't have any idea where this came from, or what it means. If it means anything."

And then, the entry:

 

_I heard a harpsichord_

_a magic jingle-jangle_

_like a voice carried over_

_a green-black sea._

_Then into the castle_

_and to it's highest tower_

_all though the vine and flower_

_and then, to me._

_Cast a spell, quick! they whispered_

_Remember?_

_How long ago?_

_The little ones spilled in the window_

_and gathered at the foot of the bed._

_Rosewood, cherrywood, firelight on mahogany_

_his blankets, like furs, gathered shadows_

_and then, me._

_It was and age of angels_

_and a dreamtime, suspended._

_Now is waiting, forever_

_all magic upended._

_Do you see it in the corner?_

_Do you feel it in your chest?_

_I can bind it with my ribbons_

_and my voice will give it rest._

_I can open the piano_

_so the hammer sees the strings._

_I can dream a spell forever_

_of our ghosts, uncoiling._

 

He read it, not quite breathing, not noticing when his cane clattered to the ground, rolling partway under the bed.

She'd done it. Belle. It was her spell, and it was trying to work in a world without magic. It had _followed_ her here. It _was_ working... Perhaps the connection, The Incident that had led to affection... Perhaps it acted as a catalyst. A trigger.

Whatever the case, ever since that day there was more and more Belle. She was emerging, even with the Curse unbroken. Even if she didn't remember, she _remembered_. Her written words showed the truth. She was still a door.... her spirits, the past... could still come through. His witch. His witchling.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lacey came to his house from bird rehab, and smelled a little feather-dusty, and a little like the banana-mash-gruel some of the infant birds ate. Bird formula.

She also smelled so good, as she always did, now. Milk and honey, fire. Edible and warm.

He'd made dinner for her, (she was even less accustomed to a kitchen than Belle had been); One of her favorites, chicken and dumplings, steaming from a big, fragrant pot. As he toiled about the kitchen in his shirtsleeves, she sat at the counter, the bar, watching and talking. It washed over him, pleasant enough, but fading to minutiae in light of her journal.

His thoughts wandered as she talked... he wondered if the baby birds, in their alien weirdness, were evoking Belle's spirit babies. Those babies of their making. He felt homesick.... empty at the pit of his belly, hollow chested. Green skinned or no, he missed his tower, Belle's bed. Even the Deadlands, with it's rushing, dangerous magic. It's cold, swept stone and cemetery scent.

Outside, in the woods, a barred owl called out it's four notes. _Who-who... who-whoo!!_

Lacey perked up, smiling. She repeated the phrase people used to identify the call, "Who cooks for you?"

She looked pointedly at Rumpelstiltskin, cooking for her in his kitchen.

The owl was insistent, repeating it's notes over and over... in the far distance, an answering owl could be heard.

Looking out of the window, seeing only tree shadow and darkening sky, Lacey said, "It's _Rumpel_ , already, you nut. Sheesh."

The wooden spoon fell into the big pot, and Rumpelstiltskin watched, frozen, as Lacey's amused expression resolved into something else entirely. Information from another life seeped in... clicked into place. They stared at one another, faces of recognition and surprise, mirroring each other.

Finally, she whispered, "Rumpelstiltskin."

With a gasp, eyes filling, he said, " _Belle."_

 

　

THE END

 

 


End file.
